1 


A 


'# 


TORCHLIGHT 


REVOLUTION 


The  TORCHLIGHT  Series 

of  Napoleonic  Romances 

I 

.REVOLUTION 

II 

.LOVE 

in 

.AMBITION 

IV 

.SUCCESS 

V 

.VICTORY 

VI 

.TRIUMPH 

vn 

.GLORY 

,VIII 

.  .ARROOANCE 

IX 

..STORM 

X 

.  .RETREAT 

XI 

.  .DEFEAT 

XII 

..THE   END 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

The  TORCHLIGHT  Series 
of  Napoleonic  Romances 

REVOLUTION 

BY 

LEONIE  AMINOFF 


»  .  J  * » 

■>       i     a     ■>  - 
c  >        1        ' 


J    J  J  J    J         >  ra  .> '  J    ' ' '  '      ' ' '  i-"-". 


a      '    J 


NEW   YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  Fifth  Avenue 


Copyright,  1921, 
By  E.  P.  Button  &  Company 


All  Bights  Reserved 

First  printing,  May,  ig^l 

Second  printing.  May,  1922 


I      «      4"*wt^ 


PBINTED   IN   THE   tTNITED 
STATES   OF    AMEBIC  A 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE 

TN  offering  her  work  to  the  pubhc,  partly  in  honor  of 
Napoleon's  centenary,  May,  1921,  the  author  begs  to 
say  that  she  has  not  only  relied  on  the  statistical  state- 
ments taken  from  the  vast  bulk  of  Napoleonic  literature^ 
but  also  on  the  personal  point  of  view,  which,  to  an  imagi- 
native mind,  is  of  greater  importance.  She  has  called  her 
work  Torchlight.  It  may  not  be  a  good  title — not  that 
titles  matter — but  surely  it  is  symbolic  of  her  attitude? 
Without  some  kind  of  light  we  poor  human  beings  are  in  a 
sad  way,  and  an  artist  is  frankly  lost.  The  human  mind 
resembles  a  torch — we  like  the  idea  of  a  torch  now  burn- 
ing sullenly,  now  bursting  into  a  flame  of  purest  light ! 

In  this  particular  volume  Napoleon  is  shown  in  the  first 
stage  of  his  wonderful  career  against  a  more  or  less  de- 
tailed background  of  the  French  Revolution,  which,  as  it 
were,  ploughs  a  passage  for  his  advance.  Even  he  would 
have  failed  in  a  world  of  peace. 

The  book  is  inscribed  to  the  author's  twin  sister,  Sylvia, 
and  her  three  little  daughters,  Nadine,  Pamela,  and  Flora. 
McDougall,  who  have  taken  flattering  interest  in  the  work, 
most  of  it  written  under  the  ancient  roofs  of  Provender 
(their  home)  in  the  Black  Prince's  own  chamber,  so  called 
since  that  valiant  knight  (1346)  occupied  it,  on  his  way  to 
join  his  father's  standard  in  France. 


•-1 


CONTENTS 


FACE 


Author's  Note >.  s  >  >  ^ 

BOOK    I:    REVOLUTION 

Chapter  One     .      .      .      .:..,••••&:•  ^ 

Chapter  Two      .      •      .     >      •     >      .      •      •  >:  >  •  " 

Chapter  Three        .      .      ..     >      •      •      •      •  •  •  >-  ^° 

Chapter  Four     .      .      ..     >:     .     >      •      •      •  >:  •  •  29 

Chapter  Five      ...........  a  •  34 

Chapter  Six        .      .     >.     .>....  :•:  •  •  39 

Chapter  Seven         .     >:     y     >;     .      .      .      •  >.  >.  •  ^^ 

Chapter  Eight        ..;     >;     ;••     ..     •      •      •      •:  :*.  is-  •  ^^ 

Chapter  Nine     .      .     ..;     >     >.     •      •;     •     a  k  >  •  ^^ 

Chapter  Ten      .     ...     ;•;     .•;     i^     i     •     .«.     i*:  >j  i>j  >  "' 

Chapter  Eleven      .....     .      .      .      •  k  i*.  •  "^^ 

Chapter  Twelve      .      .     ...     ...     .•     >.     :•.     ls.  'a  •.  •  "^ 

Chapter  Thirteen         .     >;     [.,     >,     l-i;     [•:     [_•:  i:  >.  •  91 

Chapter  Fourteen        ....     ..;     >.     [«:>;•  •  99 

Chapter  Fifteen     .      .     >.     .      .....  .  .  .107 

Chapter  Sixteen      .      .;     .     ...     .     >     :.j     >;  >.  •  .114 

Chapter  Seventeen      .     ;.     ..■ 

Chapter  Eighteen 

Chapter  Nineteen        ..     .      . 

Chapter  Twenty     .... 

Chapter  Twenty-one •.     >;  l*:  >  •  1^2 

vii 


123 
130 

140 
145 


vm 


CONTENTS 


Chapter  Twenty-two   . 
Chapter  Twenty-three 
Chapter  Twenty-four 
Chapter  Twenty-five  . 
Chapter  Twenty-six 


PAGI 

162 
168 
173 
180 
183 


BOOK    II:    TERROR 

Chapter  Twenty-seven 195 

Chapter  Twenty-eight 201 

Chapter  Twenty-nine 206 

Chapter  Thirty 209 

Chapter  Thirty-otste 216 

Chapter  Thirty-two 222 

Chapter  Thirty -three 231 

Chapter  Thirty-four 234 

Chapter  Thirty-five 244 

Chapter  Thirty-six 257 

Chapter  Thirty-seven 272 

Chapter  Thirty-eight 287 

Chapter  Thirty-nine 292 

Chapter  Forty 306 

Chapter  Forty-one 314 

Chapter  Forty-two       ...........  325 

Chapter  Forty-three         .      .      .     > 337 

Chapter  Forty-four ,     ■,      .      .      .  345 

Chapter  Forty-five      ...,.,■....  359 


BOOK   I 
REVOLUTION 


D 


TORCHLIGHT 


CHAPTER  I 

jURING  the  inaugural  ceremony  of  affianced  love 
Terezia  held  herself  apart  with  charming  modesty. 
She  veiled  her  eyes  from  the  too  ardent  gaze  of  Devin. 
She  clasped  her  hands  together  under  mamma's  tearful 
harangue.  She  wished  mamma  at  Jericho.  Why  make  a 
fuss  about  an  extraordinarily  commonplace  situation.'' 
Everyone  married.  Marriage  was  the  first  step  of  any 
importance  in  life.  From  the  bridal  altar  the  road  led  in 
many  directions.  Terezia,  half-listening  to  mamma  and  to 
the  marquis's  choked  commentaries,  grew  thoughtful.  She 
looked  very  lovely,  very  young,  very  innocent. 

With  a  final  embrace  which  effectually  included  both  the 
lovers,  Marie-Antoinette  left  the  room  somewhat  hastily. 
She  had  just  remembered  some  trifling  detail  of  her  dinner- 
table  which  hadn't  pleased  her.  She  would  speak  to  Chris- 
tina at  once.  What  on  earth  had  made  Pedro  fold  the 
napkins  in  such  an  outlandish  pattern?  Swans  were  all 
the  fashion  and  sufficiently  elaborate,  but  tall,  spiky,  inse- 
cure turrets  of  an  impossible  architecture  were,  to  put  it 
plainly,  "real  horrors."  ...  On  his  knees  sank  the  lover, 
stretching  out  beseeching  arms,  rolling  his  eyes  in  a  fearful 
endeavor  to  look  attractive.  "Angel,"  he  moaned.  It  was 
the  saddest  exliibition. 

Terezia,  overcome  by  bashfulness  (or  was  it  laughter?), 
turned  her  back  draperies  to  his  languishing  gaze,  and,  to 
do  something,  began  rearranging  the  flowers  on  the  chim- 
ney-piece. It  was  more  than  mortal  lover  could  endure. 
A  costumier  of  the  first  rank  might  have  found  consola- 


4  TORCHLIGHT 

tion  in  admiring  the  charming  folds  of  a  rose-pink  dress 
which  charmingly  revealed  the  lines  of  a  charming  figure. 
.  .  .  Devin  had  no  artistic  talent  to  help  him  in  his  hour 
of  need — he  was  all  heart,  and  that  tender  organ  was 
being  lacerated  by  indifference. 

The  marquis,  fired  by  rage,  did  a  fine  stroke  of  business. 
He  leapt  to  his  feet,  caught  the  lady  backwards,  and  twist- 
ing her  round — just  as  easily  as  she  had  been  twisting  the 
long-suffering  roses — faced  her  all  burning,  all  aglow — 
"wild"  as  she  told  her  deeply  impressed  Claire  the  follow- 
ing morning,  "and  he  kissed  me  all  over." 

He  succeeded  in  impressing  her. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  presently,  "I  will  be  your  slave, 
your  humble  watchful  slave,  I'll  ask  nothing  in  return  but 
this"  (he  kissed  her  slender  fingers).  "I  ask  your  for- 
giveness— but  you  sent  me  mad.  You  are  the  most  beau- 
tiful creature  in  the  world." 

The  first  transport  over,  she  led  him  to  a  little  sofa,  sat 
down  beside  him,  and  looked  at  him  ^ath  the  eye  of  a  con- 
noisseur who  has  recently  purchased  an  article  of  doubtful 
value.  Couldn't  she  have  done  better?  He  was  certainly 
very  ugly — but  there  was  warmth  in  the  little  man.  How 
he  loved  her!  Terezia  smiled.  She  felt  just  a  little  sorry 
for  him. 

It  was  twilight,  and  in  the  grateful  shadows  of  the  big 
room  one  hardly  noticed  his  red  hair  or  even  the  color  of 
his  unfortunate  skin  .  .  .  she  would  make  him  give  greater 
attention  to  his  appearance  .  .  .  oh,  he  would  "do"  very 
well. 

"I  love  you,  dear  Devin,"  she  murmured.  "I  intend  to 
be  ideally  happy.  Presently  I'll  go  upstairs  to  bed — I  am 
just  a  little  bit  tired,  which  is  only  reasonable.  To  be 
engaged  is  such  a  very  new  sensation  and  I'll  sleep  so 
soundly  and  dream  of  my  little  Devin." 

He  drew  himself  up.  He  was  by  no  means  "little"  in  his 
own  consideration.  He  considered  himself  a  fine  figure  of 
a  man.  His  "unfortunate"  skin  deepened  in  color.  Tere- 
zia, with  a  woman's  quick  intuition,  remedied  her  fault. 


REVOLUTION  5 

"There  is  only  one  thing  which  makes  me  nervous,"  she 
began. 

(That  was  as  it  ought  to  be.)  Fontenay  smiled  ten- 
derly. "Whenever  you  have  anything  on  your  mind, 
darling,  always  remember  to  tell  me." 

"Indeed  I  will." 

"My  little  lamb !" 

The  lamb  cuddled  a  shade  closer  to  M.  de  Fontenay. 
She  looked  up  at  him  shyly.  "Oh,  you  great  big  tyrant, 
I  am  afraid  of  you !  When  you  look  at  me — I  feel  all — 
so."     She  shivered. 

He  was  alaraied.  "I  have  been  too  hasty,"  he  mur- 
mured. "I  have  startled  my  dear  lamb.  I'll  be  more 
gentle  in  future.  On  my  word  of  honor  as  a  nobleman 
you  can  trust  me !"  He  sat  very  upright  and  puffed  out 
his  narrow  chest.  "  'Faith'  is  the  watchword  of  our 
House." 

"I  am  greatly  obliged,  monsieur.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
it  is  rather  an  ordeal  to  marry  into  such  a  distinguished 
family,  ^^^at  would  you  say  if  your  little  lamb  makes  an 
exhibition  of  herself.'"' 

"I'll  kiss  her  and  forgive  her."  He  pressed  her  fingers. 
"Dear  little  hand  worthy  of  royal  jewels.  Are  you  fond 
of  gems,  mademoiselle.^" 

"Moderately  so,  monsieur.  Papa  has  kindly  given  me 
a  few  pretty  ornaments."  She  fingered  the  pearls  round 
her  neck.     "These  are  considered  rather  fine." 

"Nothing  to  what  I  intend  to  give  you.  You  will  have 
the  use  of  my  heirloom  jewels — most  of  them  were  brought 
into  my  family  by  Marie  de  Rohan,  who  married  one  of 
my  ancestors  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII." 

"Ah!"  said  Terezia,  warmly.  "Dear  big  tyrant,  your 
little  lamb  does  love  you,  very  much." 


CHAPTER  II 

'TpEREZIA  held  out  her  arms.  Her  ruffles  were  of  real 
■*•  Mechlin — her  dress  a  shadow  chintz  muslin  of  a  thin- 
ness warranted  to  stand  no  laundry.  Round  her  throat 
she  wore  a  narrow  velvet  band  with  a  diamond  slide,  on 
her  bare  feet  a  pair  of  black  velvet  slippers  with  diamond 
half-moons — "Only  paste,  my  angel." 

This  latter  remark  was  addressed  to  her  best  friend, 
Mademoiselle  Claire  de  Cardilac,  after  the  young  ladies 
had  kissed  each  other  with  effusion. 

Claire  very  often  tnpped  in  to  pay  dear  Terezia  a 
morning  call.  She  lived  quite  close  by,  in  the  gloomy  great 
stone  mansion  facing  the  Bank  of  France,  which  prospect 
gave  the  house  and  the  family,  as  Claire  was  fond  of  say- 
ing, a  solidity  beyond  reproach. 

Claire  was  also  an  only  daughter.  Her  father  had  a 
minor  post  at  court,  which  the  family  considered  extremely 
important.  Terezia  shared  completely  her  friend's  feel- 
ings on  the  subject.  It  was  delightful  to  have  the  entree. 
One  day,  perhaps,  Claire  would  be  selected  to  wait  upon 
the  queen,  to  carry  her  little  pails  of  frothy  cream,  and 
dab  the  royal  butter  on  the  little  marble  slabs  when 
majesty  played  at  work.  To  play  at  work!  What  a 
delightfully  easy  task!     Terezia  envied  her  friend. 

Claire  loved  Terezia.  Claire  was  seventeen,  but  she  was 
a  baby  compared  to  the  "big  beauty"  (who  was  only  fif- 
teen). She  wasn't  a  beauty,  the  little  Claire;  her  dark 
hair  wasn't  famous ;  her  nose  might  have  been  better ;  her 
moutli  a  trifle  smaller — but  oh,  it  couldn't  have  been  more 
good-natured.  She  would  have  run  all  Terezia's  errands 
(had  she  been  allowed)  ;  in  a  word,  she  adored  Terezia. 

There  are  many  such  friendships  in  this  world.  Beauti- 
ful belief  on  one  side,  beautiful  condescension  on  the  other ; 

C 


REVOLUTION  7 

take  my  'word  for  it,  the  former  is,  as  a  rule,  as  unjustifi- 
able as  the  latter.  Claire  was  as  good  as  gold — the  most 
unselfish  little  girl  in  Paris,  and  clever  in  her  way — alto- 
gether desirable  as  wife,  mother,  or  friend.  But  she  was 
ignored.  No  one  noticed  la  petite  la.  She  was  lost  in  the 
flaming  aureole  of  Terezia's  magnificence,  a  little  humble 
satellite — good  enough  (when  the  beauty  felt  disposed)  to 
receive  her  confidences. 

Half,  if  not  three  parts,  of  the  joy  of  making  "con- 
quests" is  the  telling  of  the  oft-repeated  tale.  Claire  had 
during  the  last  year  lived  in  a  vortex  of  agonizing  sus- 
pense.    Terezia  was  daring — greatly  daring.  .    .    . 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  marry,"  declared  Terezia, 
sinking  down  on  the  chaise  longue — "Give  me  my  polisher, 
there's  a  darling.  Oh,  it  is  somewhere — I  had  it  just  a 
minute  ago ;  my  nails  are  too  disgraceful  for  words." 

"Don't  bite  them." 

"Can't  you  find  it?'» 

"Here  it  is.     What  lovely  roses  !'* 

"Who  sent  them,  guess?'* 

"Monsieur  de  Listenay." 

"That  old  horror !  I  always  give  his  roses  to  Christina, 
No  matter  how  beautiful  they  are,  Christina  gets  them. 
She  invariably  burns  them.  She  hates  de  Listenay's  flow- 
ers ;  she  is  a  terror,  is  Christina.  She  always  finds  me  out. 
Come  here,  come  here." 

Claire  ran  across  the  room. 
'Yes?"  she  said,  bending  over  her  friend. 
'I  met  him  last  night,"  she  whispered. 

"Antoine  de  Boisgaloup?" 

"Yes,  Georges  will  cut  his  head  off  if  he  hears  the  truth. 
He  is  studying  hard  at  the  military  college.  He  writes  the 
most  adorable  letters.  Where  is  his  last  one? — on  my 
work  table,  angel.  Do  read  it,  if  you  care  to.  He  has 
made  friends  with  a  thin,  sulky  youth  who  works  like  the 
very  devil.  You  admire  industry,  Claire?  Georges  shall 
introduce  you  to  this  paragon.  He'll  love  you.  He'll 
marry  you.     I  have  a  thousand  things  to  tell  you.' 


j> 


8  TORCHLIGHT 

"Don't  bite  jour  nails,  Terezia,  dear,  you  will  ruin 
them." 

"True,  I  am  a  fool.  The  paragon's  name  is  Napoleon 
Bonaparte — if  you  want  to  know." 

"It  does  not  interest  me  in  the  least.  However,  I  admire 
his  energy." 

Terezia  yawned  and  kicked  one  foot.  The  slipper  fell 
off.     "My  feet  are  charming,"  she  said. 

"They  are  beautiful.     You  are  so  lovely,  Terezia." 

"I  suppose  I  am.  It  is  a  great  responsibility.  Thank 
your  stars  you  are  only  presentable." 

"Don't  flatter  me.  I  am  frankly  ugly.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  lank,  distressful  hair?  When  I  marry  I'll  wear 
a  wig  two  feet  high.  You  won't  know  me.  I  shall  look 
so  tall  and  dignified." 

Terezia  sat  up.     "I  said  he'd  propose!'* 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  pleased  .f'" 

*'Mamma  and  papa  are  satisfied." 

"Little  fool !  Look  at  me.  I  have  accepted  Monsieur 
de  Fontenay." 

Claire  screamed.  "Oh,  but  he  is  not  worth  such  an 
honor.     He  is  red-haired — he  is  short,  he  is  vain." 

Terezia  nodded.  "Perfectly  true,  my  friend.  But  he 
has  an  excellent  position.  He  has  a  charming  country 
house,  and  'Madame  la  marquise  de  Fontenay'  sounds 
respectable.  I'll  be  received  at  court,  and  hold  my  own 
salon.  I  shall  be  a  great  lady."  She  blew  a  kiss  to  the 
gilt  Cupid  over  her  bed.  "And  I  intend  to  make  the  best 
of  my  opportunities."  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  clasped 
Claire  in  her  arms.  "You  have  never  grasped  my  ambi- 
tions, my  soaring,  towering  ambitions.  I  want  to  live,  to 
live!"  She  almost  screamed.  "What  is  the  good  of  hav- 
ing a  matchless  body  and  a  matchless  face  if  you  don't 
dazzle  your  world?"  She  nodded  her  head.  "Ill  eat  every 
crumb  of  my  cake — the  sugar  first.  It  is  an  inherited 
taste.  Mamma  loves  sugar."  She  laughed  sardonically. 
"I  frighten  you,  pcmvre  petite?    I  am  wild  to-day,  Claire ; 


REVOLUTION  9 

I  want  to  start  at  once,  at  once !  Life  never  waits.  I 
want  to  fly !  There,  kiss  me,  darling.  When  I  am  tired 
you   shall   console  me." 

"I  thought  you  loved  Georges?" 

Terezia  laughed  and  drew  Claire  on  to  the  sofa.  ''En- 
fin,"  she  said,  "I  love  him,  he  is  a  dear  boy,  but  you  must 
admit  he  is  no  parti.  Why,  he  stands  in  deadly  terror  of 
that  horrid  mother  of  his,  Madame  de  Boisgaloup.  Even 
at  the  most  burning  moments  he  never  forgets  her  acid 
tongue.  She  is  as  sour  as  vinegar.  Why  shouldn't 
Georges  love  me.''  It  is  so  natural.  I  have  run  risks  for 
his  sake  solely  to  spite  tante  Louise.  Do  you  remember 
the  day  I  crept  through  the  pantry  window,  and  my  lace 
petticoat  caught  on  a  nail,  and  Madame  de  Boisgaloup 
found  the  lace,  and  nearly  thrashed  me?  She  shook,  my 
dear,  trembled  with  rage.  Mamma  looked  as  if  she  was 
being  gently  run  over  by  a  heavy  cart " 

"Don't,  Terezia ;  Madame  de  Carrabus  is  an  angel  of 
goodness." 

"So  she  is,  but  wearisome.  I  wish  angels  didn't  cry  so 
much.     Tears   ruin  the  complexion." 

"Are  you  serious. ?" 

"About  mamma's  complexion.'"' 

"No,  no.     In  marrying  de  Fontenay." 

"Stop  to  lunch  and  stay  on  to  dinner.  I  will  take  no 
refusal.  Then  you'll  have  the  pleasure  of  watching  a 
unique  courtship.  He  is  far  too  terrified  of  his  happiness 
to  speak ;  he  only  gapes,  rubs  his  red  mop,  and  gapes.  At 
the  end  of  an  hour's  gaping  he'll  blurt  out,  with  fierce 
unexpectedness,  'Mademoiselle,  vous  etes  tres  belle.'  It  is 
as  good  as  a  play." 

"You  must  not  make  fun  of  him.     No  doubt  he  is  better 
than  he  looks." 
■      "We'll  hope  so." 

"Terezia,  do  you  love  him?" 

"Of  course  not.  How  could  you  love  a  little  red-haired, 
man  who  gapes?" 

"Why  consider  him?" 


10  TORCHLIGHT 


m 


'Silly  child,  I  am  not  going  to  repeat  myself." 

"He  sent  you  those  roses?"  said  Claire  sadly. 

Terezia  gleefully  shut  her  eyes.  "Exactly.  As  he  has 
got  red  hair,  he  sends  me  red  roses.     Isn't  it  splendid?" 

"Is  he  of  good  family?" 

*'A  marquis." 

Claire  sighed.     "I  know  I  shall  hate  him." 

"You  couldn't  hate  anyone.  Don't  bother  your  little 
head.  We'll  get  along  famously.  What  is  the  time? 
Twelve  o'clock.  We  lunch  at  one.  I  must  dress.  Kiss 
me,  Claire.  You  are  a  darling.  If  I  hate  him  very  much 
I'll  pass  him  on  to  you.  Monsieur  le  cousin  will  of  course 
object — but  you  are  always  kind." 

Claire's  soft  brown  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  spoke 
with  emotion.  "This  is  no  matter  for  fun,"  she  said 
earnestly.     "I  want  to  assure  myself  of  your  happiness." 

"Pouff,"  said  Terezia.  "Set  3'our  mind  at  ease.  I  in- 
tend to  have  a  good  time." 

It  was  quite  a  dinner-party,  including  Monsieur  Georges 
de  Marmont,  le  marquis  Devin  de  Fontenay — to  give  him 
his  full  title — who  sat  next  Terezia  (a  wonder  in  bleu 
tendre  lavishly  draped;  in  her  yellow  hair,  combed  high 
in  the  Spanish  style,  a  dark  rose — red — nodded  over  her 
shell-Hke  ear;  another  rose — blush-white — at  her  slender 
waist ;  her  fingers  bare,  her  arms  bare,  her  neck  discreetly 
veiled;  the  rise  and  the  fall  of  her  ungirdled  bosom,  the 
flash  of  her  eyes,  her  vivacious  mouth,  her  white  teeth  were 
the  cynosure  of  all  eyes  and  mamma's  obvious  pride  and 
the  admiration  of  M.  Alexandre  de  Lameth.  He  eyed  the 
blush-white  rose  at  Terezia's  bosom  with  passionate  affec- 
tion— his  gift  .  .  .),  Madame  Lameth — a  sparkling  bru- 
nette who  did  not  in  the  least  mind  her  young  husband's 
flirtations ;  that  firebrand,  Mirabeau — a  rare  guest  at  any 
dinner-party — heaven  knows  how  Marie-Antoinette  had 
landed  him  at  her  table — silent  as  an  oyster,  and  as  hard 
to  open — and  last  but  not  least  Comte  de  Ravoral,  a  man 
of  genius,  and  cynical  beyond  report  (which  gave  him  a 


REVOLUTION  11 

rope  of  immeasurable  length).  He  was  quite  bald  and 
showed  his  originality  by  not  disguising  the  fact.  He 
was  very  elegantly  dressed,  his  coat  fitted  faultlessly — hid- 
ing not  a  line  of  his  shrunken  figure,  his  hands  were  a 
marvel  of  well- tended  wrinkles  and  tinted  nails ;  his  mouth 
was  loose,  inclined  to  hang  at  the  comers,  but  when  he 
talked  and  smiled  this  little  defect  was  not  apparent.  He 
was  fond  of  saying  that  only  in  repose  is  the  face  un- 
masked. Report  had  it  that  he  slept  behind  bed-curtains 
carefully  pinned  together.  He  was  never  taken  unawares, 
— M.  le  comte.  He  was  known  to  be  poor,  but  he  invari- 
ably appeared  a  rich  man.  He  dined  out  frequently — 
they  said,  because  he  could  not  afford  to  breakfast — he 
never  denied  a  lie  nor  admitted  a  truth.  In  truth  a  very 
able  man.  As  he  said  himself,  he  had  the  misfortune  to 
live  at  the  wrong  time.  He  would  have  had  a  remarkable 
career  if  he  had  been  born  twenty  years  before  his  esti- 
mable parents*  marriage  or  forty  years  after — as  it  was 
he  was  sandwiched  between  two  epochs.  He  sometimes 
talked  of  the  glory  of  Louis  XIV.'s  reign,  and  he  was 
equally  feeling  when  dilating  on  the  prospects  of  Madame 
de  Lameth's  youngest-born — a  veritable  cherub  in  long 
clothes.  Madame  de  Lameth  encouraged  the  old  man. 
Her  one  desire  was  to  be  amused.  He — le  vieux  comte — 
was  so  wickedly  amusing.   .    .    . 

Madame  de  Carrabus,  very  fat,  very  gorgeous  in  orange 
satin — and  black  Chantilly — beamed  on  the  company.  She 
sat  at  the  head  of  the  oval  table,  behind  a  tall  epergne  of 
solid  gold  filled  with  water-lilies.  Two  small  "aquariums'* 
sunk  in  moss,  containing  gold-fish  in  pei^etual  motion, 
gave  a  clou  to  the  table.  There  was  also  some  really 
magnificent  fruit  sent  with  the  compliments  of  M.  de  Lis- 
tenay,  who  had  been  unavoidably  prevented  from  accepting 
Madame  de  Cai-rabus'  kind  invitation.  (As  a  matter  of 
fact  he  hadn't  had  the  heart  to  face  his  successful  rival.) 

The  dinner  was  gay  and  of  excellent  quality,  the  wine 
recherche.  If  you  entertain  the  elite  you  cannot  do  less. 
There  was  a  whisper  in  Paris,  a  faint,  faint  whisper,  that 


12  TORCHLIGHT 

Carrabus'  affairs  weren't  quite  so  rosy  as  for  instance  the 
delectable  peach  facing  M.  de  Fontenay.  That  infatuated 
lover  had  at  a  mere  rumor — no  thicker  than  air — gone 
expri's  to  Madame  Carrabus  and  begged  (on  his  knees)  for 
the  honor  of  her  daughter's  hand  without  a  sou  of  dot. 
Such  sterling  love  touched  the  good  lady.  She  had  with 
warmth  extended  a  fat  hand,  raised  the  supplicant  to  his 
feet  and  promised  to  write  without  delay  on  the  matter 
to  Carrabus. 

Yesterday,  thanks  to  M.  Carrabus'  promptness,  she  had 
been  able  to  give  him  a  satisfactory  answer.  Devin  urged 
an  early  marriage.  What  had  they  to  wait  for?  He  had 
said  as  much  to  mamma,  before  dinner,  overwhelmed  by 
giddy  good-fortune.  At  dinner  he  looked  even  more 
vacant  than  usual,  ^and  never  ceased  to  "gape"  at  his 
beloved. 

Terezia,  when  she  remembered,  vouchsafed  her  affianced 
lover  a  few  tender  glances.  Once,  when  all  the  table  was 
listening  to  Mirab^^au's  lightning  wit,  she  clasped  her 
fiance's  hot  hand  in  her  own,  and  whispered  a  fond  nothing 
in  his  protruding  ear.  Then  she  glanced  across  at  Claire 
— charming  in  simple  white — with  a  woebegone  expres- 
sion. .  .  .  M.  de  Ravoral  (who  was  not  listening  to  Mira- 
beau  and  detested  him)  intercepted  the  glance  and  laughed 
captiously.  The  old  cynic  only  partially  envied  red- 
headed Fontenay  his  giddy  good-fortune. 

Alas,  wit  unless  amusing  is  sand-colored.  He  was  in- 
sufferably dull,  poor  de  Fontenay — insufferably  mean,  and 
to  crown  God's  work  he  had  a  temper  of  ten  fiends.  His 
mother  (God  rest  her  soul)  ought  to  have  known  how  to 
set  about  her  son's  education,  once  she  had  realized  the 
color  of  his  hair — she  had  brought  him  up  on  a  mild 
system  which  had  totally  disagreed  with  his  coloring.  Now, 
at  thirty-odd,  he  was  a  veritable  tyrant,  suspicious,  jeal- 
ous, untruthful,  and  with  it  all,  tongue-tied  except  in  the 
intimacy  of  his  home.  Once  safely  married  Terezia  would 
have  her  eyes  opened  and  her  hands  tied.  .    .    . 

What  a  superb  creature!     The  count  shut  his  piercing 


REVOLUTION  13 

eyes  the  better  to  visualize  her  incomparable  promise — 
after  all  she  was  barely  full-growii.  He  considered  her  at 
say  five-and-twenty — after  eleven  years'  tutelage  at  the 
fount  of  flattery  and  adulation!  By  that  time  she  would 
try  to  realize  her  own  woi'th.  .  .  .  (Terezia  at  this  period 
veiled  her  knowledge  in  public.)  He  hoped  there  wouldn't 
be  a  large  family — he  felt  jealous  of  her  perfect  figure — 
too  many  babies  invariably  spoil  a  woman's  shape.  He 
glanced  at  Marie- Antoinette.  .  .  .  Sacre  blew! — what  a 
criminal  inheritance ! 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  with  a  poignant  look  of  sorrow 
in  liis  eyes,  "I  drink  to  your  future.  May  I  beg  of  you  to 
take  care  of  yourself." 

Terezia  smiled,  slightly  astonished.  She  promised  she 
would  do  her  best. 

By  some  tacit  understanding,  very  shortly  after  coffee 
had  been  served  in  the  green  salon  Madame  Carrabus' 
friends  took  a  formal  farewell  of  their  kind  hostess. 

As  a  rule  it  was  understood  that  cards,  wine,  and  music 
were  at  the  disposal  of  any  (or  all)  of  the  guests  whO' 
desired  to  pass  their  evening  until  Pedro,  assisted  by 
Christina  (she  very  conscious  of  her  fashionable  apron 
and  a  youthful  cap  all  ribbons  and  lace — a  gift  of  the 
delighted  Terezia,  who  loved  Christina's  rather  comical 
appearance  in  her  best  headdress),  had  solemnly  handed 
round  tea  and  cakes — very  weak  tea  and  we  may  be  sure 
very  fanciful  cakes.  Marie-Antoinette  used  to  watch  the 
heavily-laden  silver  trays  with  hospitable  concern.  Had 
Christina  allowed  enough.''  Great  heavens !  Once  she  had 
forffotten  to  slice  the  chocolate  cake.  Who  would  venture 
to  cut  it.''  To  Marie- Antoinette's  intense  mortification  it 
had  passed  the  round  of  the  company  and  out  through 
the  great  folding  doors,  in  the  wake  of  Joseph's  gorgeous 
livery,  entirely  untouched.  She  had  sliivered ;  unspeak- 
able !  She  had  rushed  out  on  the  heels  of  her  guests  to 
lecture  Christina,  all  agog  with  righteous  indignation,  and 
that  good  woman  had  stared  at  her  excited  mistress  and! 
calmly  assured  her  that  it  hadn't  mattered  in  the  least. 


H  TORCHLIGHT 

and  that  there  had  been  plenty  of  other  good  things  to  eat. 
Marie- Antoinette  had  almost  danced  with  impotent  rage. 
"They  will  laugh  at  me,"  she  had  said.  "They  will  say 
I  don't  know  how  to  behave — in  short  that  I  am  a  provin- 
cial!" Christina  at  this  juncture  had  in  great  haste 
fetched  burnt  feathers  and  smelling-salts.  At  the  next 
entertainment  she  had  cut  the  cake  in  such  huge  slices  that 
Marie- Antoinette  was  obliged  to  reprimand  "such  vulgar 
display,"  and  assure  her  faithful  Christina  that  people  in 
good  society  had  no  taste  for  "coarse  eating."  .  .  .  Chris- 
tina had  not  said  one  word  in  self-justification,  but  in- 
wardly she  had  vowed  that  in  future  she  would  go  her 
own  way  and  let  her  mistress  swoon  to  her  heart's  content 
before  she  hurried  after  remedies. 

To-day  nothing  untoward  happened. 

At  dinner,  M.  Mirabeau  had  bent  an  attentive  ear  to 
his  hostess's  reminiscences. 

"I  know,  sir,  I  have  grown  fat.  Fifteen  years  ago  there 
was  not  a  prettier  girl  in  all  Bayonne.  I  could  pick  and 
choose  my  lovers  as  you  might  plunge  a  stick  in  an  ant- 
heap  and  gather  a  handful  of  insects  by  a  twist  of  the 
wrist."  She  paused  for  breath.  "What  is  the  good  of 
going  over  old  ground?  When  the  ball  is  cracked  it  will 
no  longer  bounce."  She  sighed  heavily,  and  fanned  her- 
self. "The  summer  heats  are  early  this  year,"  she  said. 
"Christina,  be  good  and  fetch  me  an  iced  drink.  When 
your  heart  is  sad  there  is  great  consolation  in  food.  In 
JBayonne,  I  lived  on  air  and  roses  and  kisses." 

"I  do  not  doubt  your  word,  madame." 

Marie-Antoinette  stared  dreamily  in  front  of  her.  The 
great  room  was  carefully  shuttered.  From  the  street  be- 
low came  the  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs  and  the  rumbling  of 
heavy  carriages. 

Mirabeau  had  talked  on  in  his  usual  half-satirical,  half- 
serious  manner.  His  voice  always  soothed  Marie-Antoi- 
nette. M.  Mirabeau  explained  some  of  his  reasons  for 
coming  to  Paris  (the  unimportant  ones). 


REVOLUTION  15 

M.  de  Fontenaj  was  the  most  abstemious  of  all.  He 
was  either  too  much  in  love  or  too  nervous  to  eat.  At 
dinner  his  cold  salmon  trout  had  remained  untouched,  and 
he  had  eaten  his  ice  at  one  gulp,  and  had  very  nearly  died 
in  consequence ;  Terezia  had  gently  slapped  his  back,  which 
made  him,  as  it  were,  die  over  again.  Through  tear-blis- 
tered e^'es  he  had  regarded  his  divinity  .  .  .  when  he 
recovered  himself  he  refused  the  cheese  and  biscuits.  Tere- 
zia with  charming  gaiety  tried  to  persuade  him.  He  shook 
his  head — another  choking  fit,  and  he'd  impair  his  dignity 
for  ever.  He  stuffed  his  napkin  into  his  mouth — a  most 
undignified  gesture.     "Merci,  merci,  ma  belle." 

Terezia  nibbled  her  biscuit  and  thin  slice  of  Gorgonzola 
cheese  with  the  air  of  a  delighted  little  mouse.  She  was 
enjoying  herself  hugely.  M.  Mirabeau  had  actually  dis- 
covered her  presence.  (Had  she  known  it,  he  had  a  great 
weakness  for  women.)  He  had  paid  her  a  compliment! 
M.  de  Lameth  had  never  ceased  to  look  at  her  with  his 
beseecliing,  beautiful  blue  eyes.  Old  Ravoral  was  more 
than  usually  audacious  and  amusing — and  then,  of  course, 
beside  her  sat  her  incomparable  Fontenay  .  .  .  altogether 
a  charming  dinner.  .    .    . 

As  they  passed  out  of  the  lofty  dining-room,  Terezia 
released  M.  de  Fontenay's  trembling  arm,  and  ran  up  to 
"her  darling  Claire."  "Oh,"  she  whispered,  "what  do  you 
think  of  him?  Doesn't  he  gape  like  a  big,  big,  hungry 
fish? — pouff !  to  think  I  am  the  little  fish  he  is  after.  .  .  . 
Hush!     Not  a  word!     I  love  him!    I  adore  him!" 

She  opened  her  mouth  wide.  Old  Ravoral,  leading 
mamma  into  the  drawing-room,  turned  round  and  mouthed 
back  at  her.  She  put  her  hands  to  her  eyes.  "Spare 
me!"  she  cried.  He  did  not  catch  what  she  said.  He 
preened  his  neck  round,  but  mamma  sailed  him  into  the 
green  salon  before  he  could  make  a  suitable  retort.  He 
bowed  his  hostess  to  a  sofa,  where  she  took  her  place 
beside  Madame  de  Lameth.  The  young  girls,  of  course, 
seated  themselves  on  chairs.  "Do  be  careful,"  implored 
Claire,  "they  will  hear  you.'*    "Tant  mieux,"  said  Terezia, 


16  TORCHLIGHT 

crossing  her  little  feet  and  looking  at  them  affectionatelj. 
"Aren't  thej  lovelj?"  she  said. 

Up  came  M.  de  Lameth. 

"I  have  been  in  Hades  all  dinner,"  he  murmured  in  the 
beauty's  ear. 

"I  regret  jour  possible  discomfort,  monsieur,"  said 
Terezia.     "Here  is  a  cool  corner." 

She  swept  her  skirts  aside.  She  had  seated  herself  on  a 
gilded  cane  bench,  with  her  back  to  her  ornate  inlaid  harp 
and  a  flaming  group  of  azaleas.  She  possessed  the  artistic 
sense  without  wliich  the  most  beautiful  woman  alive  is  less 
than  perfect.  She  played  with  a  little  lace  handkerchief — 
passing  it  through  her  fingers.  Then  quickly,  before 
Mirabeau  could  discover  her  imprudence,  she  slipped  it 
into  Lameth's  capacious  pocket.  "Your  wife's,"  she  mur- 
mured demurely.  Ravoral  looked  up.  Madame  de  Lameth 
laughed  de  hon  coeur.  Alexandre  was  quite  at  liberty  to 
keep  Terezia's  handkerchief  as  long  as  it  pleased  him.  His 
eyes  said  unspeakable  things.  Terezia  sliivered.  "Won't 
you  play  something?"  she  murmured. 

"Not  now,"  he  whispered,  "ma  toute  belle,  ma  bien 
aimee."  Again  Madame  de  Lameth  laughed  de  hon  coeur. 
Old  Ravoral  knew  very  well  what  she  was  laughing  at,  and 
he  exerted  himself  to  turn  her  attention.  He  succeeded  at 
last.  She  forgot  the  harp,  the  azaleas,  the  golden  girl  in 
pink,  the  channing  man  in  blue.  As  to  le  petit  Fontenay, 
he  did  not  pretend  to  forget  anything.  He  did  notliing 
but  gape  at  the  tantalizing  vision  opposite  him.  Poor 
Claire  in  vain  tried  to  show  him  some  really  channing 
prints  and  gravures — he'd  have  none  of  them.  His  round, 
slightly  protruding  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  highly  artistic 
tout  ensemble  opjxvsite. 

However,  his  agony  of  jealousy  was  not  prolonged  un- 
reasonably. As  we  have  said,  the  general  company — in- 
cluding Claire — very  soon  took  their  leave  with  all  the 
compliments  of  the  day.  "That  indescribable  devil  In 
blue,"  to  quote  M.  de  Fontenay's  mental  definition  of 
Madame  de  Lameth's  husband,  was  obliged  to  follow  his 


REVOLUTION  17 

smiling  wife.  She  kissed  Marie- Antoinette,  and  she  kissed 
Terezia — "My  dear,"  she  said  to  the  young  girl,  "all  my 
felicitations.  Your  mother  has  just  been  telling  me  of 
M.  de  Fontenay's  great  good  fortune.  How  happy  he 
looks!"  (Devin  was  scowling  like  a  satyr.)  "We  must 
leave  you  to  yourselves.  Come,  Alexandre,  bid  mademoi- 
selle good-bye." 

M.  de  Lameth  ceremoniously  bowed  over  the  young  girl's 
extended  hand. 

"Au  revoir,  mademoiselle." 

"Au  revoir,  monsieur." 

They  both  at  that  moment  hated  the  bonds  of  conven- 
tion. 


CHAPTER    III 

IN  1785  life  spelled  amusement. 
Terezia  found  herself  on  her  first  arrival  in  Paris,  that 
is  to  say  three  years  before  her  engagement,  in  her  ele- 
ment. She  had  a  glorious  time.  You  can  be  sure  when 
she  walked  abroad,  demurely  beside  fat  mamma,  she  at- 
tracted considerable  attention.  Who  was  she?  Where  did 
she  come  from.^  What  youth,  what  brilliancy,  what  pos- 
sibilities ! 

With  her  sleepy  half-veiled  eyes  she  was  not  slow  in 
returning  the  inquisitive  inquiring  male  glances  which  met 
hers  with  frank  admiration.  She  was  so  tall,  so  gold  and 
white,  with  a  touch  of  carmine  here  and  there  in  the  right 
places.  She  carried  herself  with  self-assurance.  Undoubt- 
edly a  young  lady  of  distinguished  family?  (Yes,  un- 
doubtedly.) 

First  of  all  she  was  made  "presentable."  Madame  Car- 
rabus  was  only  too  anxious  to  strike  a  note  of  extreme 
elegance.  From  morning  till  noon,  and  from  noon  till 
evening  the  ladies  spent  their  time  shopping,  buying  hats 
and  trying  on  dresses.  The  dressmakers,  assured  of  M. 
de  Carrabus'  inexhaustible  resources  (in  Spain),  were 
only  too  anxious  to  please  their  clients,  and,  as  a  con- 
sideration, raised  their  prices. 

Marie-Antoinette,  bom  of  thrifty  bourgeois  parents, 
was  horrified  with  a  true  Frenchwoman's  horror  of  ex- 
travagance. Poor  dear  Marie- Antoinette !  She  would 
have  loved  to  contrive  and  save,  and  make  two  lumps  of 
sugar  do  for  three — that  was  her  nature — but  fate  had 
willed  it  otherwise.  With  a  heavy  reticule  on  her  arm,  con- 
taining gold,  scent,  cosmetics  and  chocolate,  she  wended 
her  way  through  the  fasliionable  streets  of  Paris,  per- 
spiring, and  a  spendthrift ! 

18 


REVOLUTION  19 

Terezia  had  not  inherited  her  worthy  mother's  nature. 
She  did  not  mind  spending  money.  She  thought  it  undig- 
nified of  mamma  to  inquire  the  cost  of  an  article  before 
purchasing  it.  She  blushed  when  mamma  gasped  at  the 
price,  clutching  her  reticule  tighter  than  ever.  "Paris  is 
a  nest  of  thieves,"  said  mamma. 

"We  are  rich,"  said  Terezia  with  unanswerable  truth. 
"Why  make  a  fuss?  Besides,  that  little  gown  suits  me  to 
perfection." 

When  duly  dressed  our  debutante  was  introduced  in  a 
certain  set — alas,  Madame  de  Boisgaloup's  acquaintances 
did  not  include  the  haute  noblesse,  but  she  knew  very  nice 
people  indeed, — distinguished,  charming,  witty,  good-look- 
ing. Marie-Antoinette  every  Sunday  with  praiseworthy 
regularity  wrote  a  budget  of  news  to  her  husband,  who 
was  detained  by  pressure  of  business  in  Madrid. 

Carrabus  smiled  when  he  received  these  naive  epistles. 
The  only  thing  which  really  delighted  him  was  Terezia's 
personal  success.  He  impressed  on  his  wife  that  she  must 
remember  the  girl's  youth,  and  above  all  give  attention  to 
the  proper  finishing  of  her  education.  "Knowledge  is  of 
incredible  importance"  (he  wrote).  "Not  when  you  are 
beautiful"  (she  answered  in  return),  which  was  rather  sage 
philosophy  from  the  pen  of  a  good-natured  fool.  The 
great  Carrabus,  with  all  his  scintillating  gifts  of  mind  and 
speech,  was  very  pleased  to  applaud  his  wife's  wit.  True, 
he  wasn't  often  called  upon  to  exert  himself. 

Span  those  full  years,  those  much  exposed,  much  be- 
written  years — 1785-1791 — what  do  they  not  represent 
of  audacity  and  excitement,  bloodshed  and  horror,  and 
sheer  brutal  vitality  ?  A  pity  they  have  been  run  to  death 
for  our  purpose.  Who  can  hope  to  throw  a  new  light  on 
such  a  well-worn  topic.'' 

And  yet  here  is  our  scheme — to  show  you  the  expected 
from  Terezia's  point  of  view  (and  she  was  always  in  the 
limelight),  to  show  you  a  living,  breathing,  actual  woman 
■ — precocious,  a  devil  undoubtedly,  but  a  creature  of  swift 
transitions,  great  energy,  and  undeniable  looks.     Look  at 


20  TORCHLIGHT 

her  career — dipping  from  the  commonplace  to  sordidness 
— from  sordidness  to  theatrical  sublimity,  "Notre  Dame 
de  Septembre,"  "Notre  Dame  de  Directoire,"  and  slipping 
off  to  dull  and  princely  respectability  after  a  long  life  of 
debauchery. 

It  is  giving  the  plot  away  with  a  vengeance  and  maybe 
hunting  you  off  the  track?  Who  knows  what  lies  before 
us?  Anyhow,  such  as  it  is,  the  story  has  to  be  written — 
for  the  greater  part  as  it  happened.  Truth  carries  her 
own  flag. 

Terezia  never  forgot  her  first  impressions  of  Paris.  She 
had  leaned  as  far  as  she  could  out  of  the  dusty  traveling 
carriage  to  gain  a  glimpse  of  all  the  wonders. 

Paris  was  a  far  gayer,  far  brighter  city  than  Madrid. 
And  yes,  it  didn't  smell  nearly  as  evilly.  She  found  the 
Rue  St.  Honore  most  imposing — the  shops,  the  pedes- 
trians, even  the  beggars  came  in  for  a  due  share  of  notice. 
In  default  of  her  sleepy  mamma's  attention,  she  had  to 
address  her  ecstatic  remarks  to  Christina,  who  sat  facing 
her  ladies,  holding  on  to  a  valise — probably  containing 
madame's  diamonds,  or  madame's  sugar  cakes. 

Christina  had  been  born  in  the  Rue  du  Bac  thirty-five 
years  ago.  She  knew  Paris.  She  could  (an'  she  would) 
have  pointed  out  the  chief  sights  to  her  young  lady  (she'd 
nursed  her  from  a  baby).  But  Christina  was,  as  she  ex- 
pressed it,  shaken  to  her  marrow  by  the  infernal  jolting 
of  the  lumbering  vehicle.  She  was  tired  and  cross,  and 
to  all  Terezia's  eager  questions  she  answered  in  toneless 
monosyllables. 

"I'll  bite  your  head  off  if  you  don't  tell  me  what  that 
is,"  the  young  beauty  cried,  shaking  Christina's  arm. 

"What  could  it  be,  mam'selle,  but  the  palace  of  the 
king?" 

"Do  you  think  he  is  there  now?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"What  a  quaint  bridge  all  covered  with  shops,  little 
tiny  shops.  Do  you  hear  them  fighting?  Look  at  that 
man ;  why,  he  is  as  black  as  ink  and  nearly  naked.    Chris- 


REVOLUTION  21 

tina,  he  will  kill  someone  with  that  pole!"  Terezia  shut 
her  eyes.     "Are  we  safely  over?"  she  asked  presently. 

'"Yes,"  said  Christina  in  the  same  dull  voice. 

They  left  fashionable  Paris  behind  them,  and,  even  as 
the  sun  dipped  in  the  muddy  Seine,  they  drew  up  with  a 
jerk,  which  effectually  woke  Marie- Antoinette,  in  front  of 
a  tall  gray  house  on  the  Quai  St.  Louis. 

Pedro,  the  footman,  rang  a  hoarse-throated  bell.  The 
great  iron  gates  of  the  courtyard  swung  back. 

The  gatekeeper's  wife,  a  homely  woman  dressed  in 
deepest  black,  curtsied  to  the  ladies. 

Over  the  front  door  waved  a  bale  of  black  dull  cloth, 
surrounding  two  wax  lights  in  dim  lanterns,  which  gleamed 
ineffectually  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

Terezia  looked  around  her  fearfully,  as  she  followed 
mamma  out  of  the  carriage  into  the  entrance  hall,  which 
was  narrow,  gloomy  and  also  draped  in  black. 

''''Tiens!  the  great  misfortune,"  said  Marie-Antoinette, 
"Who  is  dead.?" 

The  major-domo,  old  and  silver-haired,  let  his  stave 
rattle  on  the  stone  flooring. 

*'The  master.  Monsieur  de  Boisgaloup,"  he  replied. 

Marie-Antoinette,  who  was  vainly  trying  to  order  her 
hair  and  arrange  her  veil,  exclaimed  anxiously:  "My  hus- 
band wrote  making  his  arrangements.  We  were  to  accept 
the  hospitality  of  his  old  friend.  I  wouldn't  inconvenience 
madame  for  worlds !  Tell  us,  good  man,  the  name  of  a 
decent  inn.  Stop  the  carriage !  Christina — see,  the  idiots 
are  unstrapping  the  luggage.  We  cannot  in  decency  stay 
here."  At  last  she  had  her  veil  free  and  revealed  her 
heated,  worried  face.  "Paris  is  as  hot  as  an  oven,"  she 
said.     "Oo-uff,  for  a  glass  of  iced  water!'* 

Before  the  old  servant  could  answer,  a  little  lady — 
spare  as  a  robin,  dark,  vivacious,  dressed  in  deep  widow's 
weeds,  with  an  enormous  white  lawn  tippet  and  cuffs  to 
match — flung  herself  into  Marie-Antoinette's  arms. 

"Welcome,"  she  gasped.     "Welcome." 

The  ladies  kissed  each  other. 


22  TORCHLIGHT 

Marie- Antoinette  overflowed  with  condolences  and  ejac- 
ulations. She  would  not  derange  dear  Louise.  What  a 
tragedy — only  ill  seven  days?  and  (comparatively)  such 
a  young  man ;  handsome  and  charming ! 

He  was  fat — too  fat,"  said  Madame  de  Boisgaloup. 
The  heat  carried  him  off,  the  heat  and  dysentery.  He 
grieved  not  to  be  able  to  meet  you.  He  charged  me  with 
all  manner  of  messages." 

*'It  tears  my  heart,"  said  Marie- Antoinette ;  ever  a 
facile  weeper,  she  let  her  tears  rain  on  the  smooth  muslin 
bosom  of  the  little  widow.     "You  have  children?" 

"Two  boys,  great  big  boys ;  they  must  make  friends 
with  your  little  girl." 

Madame  de  Boisgaloup  searched  the  dim  hall  with  her 
sharp  little  eyes.  She  almost  laughed,  so  great  was  her 
astonishment,  when  she  discovered  Terezia.  "You  never 
prepared  me  for  this,"  she  said.  "She  might  well  be  seven- 
teen, a  marriageable  young  lady,  and  I  was  expecting  a 
child  to  pet  and  hold  in  my  empty  arms." 

She  gave  a  hand  to  each  of  her  guests.  "You  must  be 
tired  and  you  will  want  to  see  your  rooms,  and  you,  my 
great  big  girl,  must  go  to  bed  at  once.    How  old  are  you?" 

"Twelve  years,  madame." 

"Mon  Dieu !    And  she  towers  over  me." 

She  led  them  into  a  big  prim  salon  with  three  tall  win- 
dows facing  the^  river.  To  the  left  were  the  congested 
buildings  of  the  lie  St.  Louis  and  the  exquisite  spiral  of 
the  Sainte  Chapelle. 

The  Boisgaloups  lived  in  the  oldest  quarter  of  the  town. 

The  light  was  fairly  good  in  the  big  room  in  spite  of  its 
somber  hangings.  The  family  portraits  were  shrouded  in 
black  cloth,  and  all  the  furniture  was  covered  in  white  linen 
sheeting,  to  match  the  calico-hung  walls. 

Terezia  shivered.  The  room  struck  damp  and  cold  with 
an  indescribable  odor  of  withered  flowers,  wax  lights  and 
death. 

"There  stood  his  coffin.  My  poor  Antoine  was  only 
buried  yesterday.     His   funeral  oration  was  magnificent 


REVOLUTIOiV  23 

and  cost  me  a  hundred  livres  In  doles  to  the  poor,  exclusive 
of  the  masses  for  his  soul  and  a  thousand  incidental  ex- 
penses. I  have  spared  no  money.  I  even  called  in  the 
king's  physician,  and  his  fee  is  enormous.  He  could  do 
nothing  but  shake  his  head  and  approve  of  Jordain's  treat- 
ment. And  my  poor  Antoine  groaned.  It  is  horrible  to 
watch  suffering,  horrible.  When  they  told  me  he  was  dead 
I  praised  God." 

*'I  share  your  feelings,"  said  Marie- Antoinette,  sitting 
down  precisely  in  the  middle  of  the  long  hard  settee  under 
the  defunct  gentleman's  portrait.  He  was  portrayed  wear- 
ing his  legal  robes  and  looked  highly  important.  On  either 
side  of  him  hung  two  charming  portraits. 

Terezia  stared  at  these  pictures,  and  wondered  if  the 
young  girl  in  a  pink  hooped  skirt,  wearing  her  natural 
brown  curls,  with  rosy  lips  and  dimpled  cheeks,  could  be 
her  hostess.  Terezia's  relentless  young  eyes  noticed  Ma- 
dame de  Boisgaloup's  withered,  lemon-tinted  skin,  brought 
into  sharp  contrast  by  her  hideous  black  head-dress  (which 
completely  enveloped  her  hair),  and  the  stiff  muslin  ker- 
chief pinned  by  a  mourning  brooch — two  cross-bones  and 
a  skull  framed  in  dull  ebony — placed  exactly  beneath  her 
pointed  chin. 

It  was  Terezia's  first  Introduction  to  death.  She  shiv- 
ered again.  She  felt  quite  sure  M.  de  Boisgaloup  ought 
to  have  died  a  month  earlier  or  a  month  later.  He  had 
behaved  with  no  consideration  for  his  Spanish  guests. 

Terezia  made  big  eyes  at  her  mother,  who  was  reveling 
in  the  details  of  the  deceased  gentleman's  illness.  The  little 
widow,  who  had  seated  herself  beside  her  visitor,  possessed 
herself  of  one  of  her  large  white  hands  and  while  gently 
stroking  it  poured  out,  in  an  unbroken  stream,  her  infor- 
mation. Marie-Antoinette  continually  nodded  her  head. 
At  last  Terezia  felt  convinced  that  either  it  or  her  insecure 
bonnet  must  come  off. 

Terezia  was  also  convinced  that  grown-up  people,  par- 
ticularly elderly  ladies,  were  very  tiresome. 

She  walked  over  to  the  window.     She  longed  to  open  it. 


24  TORCHLIGHT 

but  didn't  dare.  The  atmosphere  was  stifling.  Where 
were  the  boys,  she  wondered?  And  where  was  she  going 
to  sleep.''  She  hoped  she  would  be  given  a  proper  bed. 
She  hated  lying  anyhow  on  a  sitting-room  sofa  and  being 
obliged  to  get  up  and  dress  early  in  the  morning  ,  .  , 
she  would  insist  on  a  bed,  she  would  stir  up  heaven  and 
earth  until  a  bed  was  provided  for  her.  Her  legs  ached. 
They  had  been  cramped  in  the  carriage  with  all  mamma's 
packages  and  parcels. 

Marie- Antoinette  remembered  that  she  was  dusty,  tired 
and  hot.  An  overwhelming  thirst  possessed  her.  As  dear 
Louise  was  counting  the  funeral  wreaths,  and  the  names 
of  the  distinguished  guests  who  had  attended  the  funeral 
banquet,  she  wetted  her  lips  with  her  tongue  and  exclaimed, 
"Christina  has  a  wonderful  recipe  for  lemonade:  two  lem- 
ons, a  dash  of  sherry,  a  thimbleful  of  any  sweet  liqueur 
handy,  half-a-dozen  crystallized  cherries,  two  bay  leaves 
and  iced  water."  The  last  words  were  spoken  with  great 
emphasis. 

Her  hostess  immediately  took  the  hint  (stiffly). 

"Terezia,"  she  exclaimed.  "There  is  the  bell-rope — to 
the  left,  child — mind  my  best  Sevres  vase.  Ciel — a  touch 
is  sufficient !" 

A  loud  sonorous  peal  sounded  throughout  the  house. 
Terezia  had  pulled  the  bell-rope  with  a  vengeance!  She 
was  burning  for  action.  She  wouldn't  have  minded  in  the 
least  if  Madame  de  Boisgaloup's  cherished  vase  had  been 
knocked  to  pieces.  In  the  face  of  such  a  deplorable  acci- 
dent the  ladies  must  have  interrupted  their  gruesome  con- 
versation. Who  cared  a  straw  about  the  horrid  old  man's 
S3Tnptoms  and  his  nasty  illness?  It  made  her  feel  sick  to 
listen  to  them.     He  was  much  better  dead. 

Presently,  refreshed  by  a  cup  of  cold  water,  served  with 
strawberry  juice,  and  a  moderate  supply  of  wafer  biscuits, 
Marie-Antoinette  allowed  herself  to  be  conducted  to  her 
apartments. 

Terezia  followed  on  tiptoe,  all  excitement  to  know  where 
she  was  to  sleep  .    .    .  she  would  insist  on  a  bed.  .    .  ... 


REVOLUTION  25 

Marie- Antoinette  had  told  her  that  little  girls,  when  pay- 
ing visits,  slept  anywhere,  where  most  convenient ;  they 
were  given  a  pillow  and  a  quilt — bon  Dieu,  they  could 
choose  for  themselves  a  sofa  (if  vacant)  or  they  could  lie 
on  the  floor  or  on  three  chairs,  or  on  the  linen  chest,  ia 
the  wood-box — tiens,  little  girls  slept  anywhere.  .    .    . 

Terezia,  after  receiving  this  valuable  information  one 
day  during  their  interminable  drive,  had  remained  quite 
silent.  Well,  anyhow  she  would  marry  at  her  first  oppor- 
tunity. According  to  mamma,  married  ladies  were  given 
the  luxury  of  beds,  and  sheets  and  fine  lace  and  satin  quilts 
and  dear  little  gilt  Cupids  to  hold  back  the  silk  bed  draper- 
ies. To  gain  such  grace  Terezia  felt  herself  willing  to 
marry  the  ugly  postihon  who  had  lost  one  eye  and  who 
squinted  villainously  with  the  one  left  him. 

Marie-Antoinette  had  laughed  at  her  daughter's  airs 
and  graces.  She  had  said  she  was  altogether  too  fastid- 
ious— the  next  thing  she  would  demand  would  be  scented 
baths  and  toilet  powder,  and  jewels  and  her  box  at  the 
opera.  What  were  young  girls  coming  to.''  It  was  not 
seemly. 

Marie-Antoinette  preached  her  homily  to  deaf  ears. 
Mamma  was  hopelessly  old-fashioned.  Terezia  had  shaken 
her  splendid  plaits  with  a  contemptuous  toss  of  her  head. 
Youth  stands  for  much  in  the  eyes  of  youth,  .    .    . 

Madame  de  Boisgaloup's  best  spare  room  was  quite  a 
fine  apartment.  Yes,  a  splendid  bed,  carved  white  and 
gilt  wood,  green  brocade  panels  and  curtains  to  match; 
a  lovely  suite  of  modern  furniture  (Louis  XVI.),  a  bu- 
reau supplied  with  an  oval  toilet  mirror  set  in  silver,  and, 
in  one*  corner,  a  commode  with  a  china  basin — the  size  of 
a  small  rose-bowl — and-  a  ewer  to  match. 

"How  charming,"  said  Marie-Antoinette.  "And  even 
flowers."  Against  the  white  paneled  walls  Madame  de 
Boisgaloup  had  set  a  big  jardiniere  of  white  roses  and 
red  carnations. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  them,  dear  Marie-Antoinette," 
said  the  widow,  applying  her  enormous  handkerchief  io 


^6  TORCHLIGHT 

her  bright  little  eyes.  "They  arrived  this  morning  with 
M.  de  Listenay's  compliments.  He  has  such  taste.  They 
were  intended  for  my  poor  dear  Antoine.  He'd  mistaken 
the  day.  The  cemetery  is  such  a  long  way  off,  and  I 
thought  you  would  appreciate  them  better  than  he  could. 
You  must  see  M.  de  Listenay's  famous  gardens.  They 
say  the  queen  envies  him." 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  Marie- Antoinette.  "I  appre- 
ciate the  warmth  of  your  heart.  Terezia,  tliank  madame 
for  her  great  kindness." 

Terezia  curtsied. 

Madame  de  Boisgaloup  clasped  her  hands  together,  hav- 
ing first  folded  her  handkercliief,  and  replaced  it  in  her 
pocket.     "Take  off  your  hat,  child,"  she  said. 

Terezia  obeyed  her. 

*'And  your  pelerine.  We  haven't  worn  these  things  for 
five  years  in  Paris." 

Marie- Antoinette  blushed  more  hotly  than  ever.  Of  all 
ithings  to  be  accused  of  being  unfashionable !  Sorrow  had 
made  the  estimable  Louise  bitter.  They  would  soon  rectify 
[their  wardrobes.  M.  Carrabus  had  supplied  them  with  a 
substantial  sum  of  ready  money  and  a  munificent  letter  of 
credit. 

She  looked  at  her  young  daughter  dressed  in  her  flow- 
ered, hooped  satin  dress  of  richest  brocade;  noted  her  lace 
under-sleeves,  her  immaculate  throat  and  her  sulky  expres- 
sion.    The  little  one  looked  tired. 

"All  is  light  and  air  in  Paris,"  said  the  widow.  "The 
thinnest  of  silks  and  taffetas  are  worn ;  Chinese  crepes  and 
English  muslins ;  the  queen  has  set  a  fashion  of  expensive 
simplicity.  A  shower  wiU  ruin  a  costly  dress  in  a  few 
moments.  The  dressmakers  are  doing  a  wonderful  trade. 
Thanks  to  the  genius  of  dear  M.  Calonne — he  is  longing 
to  make  your  acquaintance — we  are  again  rich  in  France, 
incomparably  rich!  Calonne  is  a  veritable  conjurer.  My 
dear,  he  arrived  in  the  nick  of  time.     There  were  stories 

about — terrible  stories — people  dying  of  starvation " 

'God  help  them !"  murmured  Marie- Antoinette. 


m 


REVOLUTION  27 

"Menacing  the  king's  majesty,  insulting  the  nobles. 
And  the  nobles  themselves  are  at  their  wits*  end  for  ade- 
quate supplies.  They  have  had,  in  a  great  many  cases, 
to  sell  their  personal  effects,  their  silver,  their  jewels,  and 
they  have  parted  with  their  daughters  for  next  to  nothing. 
If  you  cannot  provide  a  dot  you  cannot  expect  a  match, 

you  must  take  what  offers.     Incredible  stories "     She 

paused  for  breath.  "But  you  must  be  tired — I  will  leave 
you,  dear  Marie- Antoinette.  Supper  will  be  ready  at  ten 
o'clock." 

"You  are  too  kind,"  said  Marie-Antoinette,  conducting 
her  friend  to  the  door,  who  whispered  in  her  ear,  "My  con- 
gratulations. She  is  lovely.  It  is  a  thousand  pities  my 
mourning  prevents  me  from  introducing  her  into  society. 
It  would  have  been  such  a  pleasure.  Twelve!  Impos- 
sible!" 

"Terezia  is  well  grown  for  her  age,"  said  Marie- Antoi- 
nette with  placid  satisfaction.     "I  married  at  fifteen." 

"That  is  over-young.  No  girl  ought  to  marry  before 
sixteen." 

"Terezia  will  marry  long  before  that,  and  to  tell  you 
the  truth"  (she  lowered  her  voice),  "I  will  not  hinder  the 
child  from  making  a  suitable  marriage.  She  is  terribly 
headstrong  and  already  gives  me  untold  anxiety.  Every 
man  who  sees  her  loves  her." 

"And  she?" 

"She  returns  their  love — up  to  a  certain  point,  of 
course." 

"My  poor  friend !" 

Madame  de  Boisgaloup  blew  a  kiss  through  the  chinlc 
of  the  door.     "Au  revoir,  mes  cheres  amies." 

Hardly  had  she  closed  the  door  before  Terezia,  on  the 
point  of  bursting  into  tears,  called,  in  suffocating  accents, 
"Christina!     Where  are  you,  Christina?" 

A  tiny  door  in  the  paneling  opened  unexpectedly.  Chris- 
tina ran  hurriedly  towards  her  nursling.  "What  is  it, 
precious?"     Her  tone  was  all  anxiety,  all  sympathy. 

"Where  am  I  to  sleep,  Christina?"  sobbed  Terezia.    «1 


28  TORCHLIGHT 

won't  sleep  in  the  same  bed  as  mamma.     She  always  rolls 


on  me " 


'"There,  there,"  said  Christina.  "Come,  I  will  show 
3^ou.  It  is  a  lovely  little  virgin  bower,  and  when  I  get  the 
window  opened  it  will  smell  as  fresh  as  a  May  morning." 

Terezia  quickly  followed  the  maid  through  the  little 
paneled  door  and  found  herself  in  a  good-sized  cupboard, 
arranged  with  hooks  and  wide  shelves.  Right  at  the  top 
was  a  tiny  dormer  window  hung  with  a  little  home-spun 
blind  of  coarse  red  and  white  linen.  The  top  shelf  was 
supplied  with  a  mattress  and  a  pillow. 

*'Is  it  a  bed.'^"  asked  Terezia  doubtfully. 

*'What  else.?"  said  Christina  stoutly.  "And  a  very 
comfortable  bed,  too." 


CHAPTER   IV 

CHRISTINA  was  well  aware  of  her  young  lady's  "go- 
ings on."  She  knew  why  her  mistress,  after  four 
months'  residence  under  the  roof  of  Madame  Boisgaloup, 
took  a  cordial  farewell  of  her  friend,  and  installed  herself 
in  her  own  appartement.  There  had  been  friction  on  both 
sides,  tears,  reproaches,  vows,  forgiveness  (and  broken 
promises  galore  from  Terezia).  Georges  Boisgaloup  had 
at  sight  fallen  head  over  ears  in  love  with  the  brilliant 
blonde,  which  was  but  natural.  His  younger  brother  was 
not  slow  in  contracting  the  fever,  and  their  rivalry  gave 
infinite  delight  to  Terezia.  The  bright-eyed  widow  at  last 
discovered  a  very  apparent  situation.  She  scolded  every 
inmate  of  her  household.  The  lovers  were  obliged  to  meet 
by  stealth,  which  only  added  to  their  delight.  Christina 
knew  and  held  her  tongue,  and  pulled  her  young  lady's 
hair  mercilessly  at  night.  Terezia  didn't  care.  Out  she 
crept  to  the  back  garden  on  every  plausible  excuse.  She 
liked  both  brothers  impartially,  and  it  was  heaven  to  kiss 
by  moonlight  and  whisper  in  terrified  accents  of  the 
future.  .    .    . 

Madame  de  Boisgaloup  told  Marie- Antoinette  her  true 
opinion  of  her  lovely  daughter.  "She  ought  to  be  kept 
under  lock  and  key,"  said  she. 

"Indeed,  yes,"  said  Marie-Antoinette.  "Didn't  I  tell 
you  the  very  first  evening  that  she's  a  handful?" 

"More  than  a  handful,"  said  dear  Louise. 

The  docile  Terezia  was  whisked  to  society  functions  "to 
distract  her  and  give  her  new  impressions."  She  was  like 
wax.  The  Due  de  Listenay — the  gentleman  who  had  sent 
her  a  basket  of  white  roses  and  carnations  by  a  somewhat 
unusual  channel — fell  an  easy  victim  to  her  charms.  He 
was  rich  and  charming,  but  beyond  allowing  him  to  make 

29 


30  TORCHLIGHT 

his  intentions  extremely  plain,  Terezia  would  have  none  of 
him — he  was  too  obvious.  She  recalled  her  youth.  She 
was  too  young  for  an  engagement.  Mamma  agreed. 
Widow  Boisgaloup  had  a  different  opinion. 

The  upshot  of  this  disagreement  was  that  the  ladies 
decided  to  set  up  their  own  establishment.  "God  bless 
you,  dear  friend,"  said  Louise,  heaving  a  sigh  of  relief  as 
she  watched  the  gorgeous  new  coach  of  the  Carrabus'  roll 
down  the  ill-paved  street. 

Terezia  very  gracefully  waved  her  hand  to  the  widow, 
now  less  funereal.  She  had  discarded  the  "weepers"  from 
her  head  in  favor  of  a  lace  head-dress  including  two  lace 
lappets  which  fluttered  gently  in  the  early  morning  breeze. 
Marie-Antoinette  was  busy  drying  her  eyes.  Christina, 
facing  her  ladies,  kept  her  eyes  piously  fixed  on  the  slender 
spire  of  the  Sainte  Chapelle. 

They  moved  into  rooms  befitting  their  station — you 
may  be  sure  as  fine  and  ornate  as  money  could  procure. 
Terezia — that  forward,  precocious  minx — had  insisted  on 
having  not  only  a  bed  to  herself,  but  also  a  bedroom ! 

She  delighted  herself  in  furnishing  it  according  to  her 
own  taste.  The  bed — narrow  and  white  as  befitted  a 
jeune  fille — was  nevertheless  a  decorative  object  in  a  room 
all  decoration.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Terezia's  bed- 
room— she  occupied  it  only  for  a  year  and  a  month  or  so 
• — the  very  walls  were  garlanded  with  hand-painted  roses, 
and  fat  little  Cupids  smiled  from  a  lofty  and  exceedingly 
blue  ceiling.  The  tall  windows  were  draped  with  lace  cur- 
tains festooned  with  dashing  rosettes  of  rose  satin  ribbon ; 
on  the  toilette  table,  en  suite,  there  glittered  a  whole  regi- 
ment of  glass  bottles  and  various  toilet  implements  and 
painted  sachets  and  silver-gilt  brushes.  Close  to  her  bed, 
on  its  own  little  pedestal,  there  was  a  Sevres  lady  in  painted 
china — she  sat  by  a  table,  fast  asleep,  her  little  red-slip- 
pered feet  peeping  beneath  a  froth  of  china  lace;  her  gen- 
erously-displayed bosom  rising  from  another  fall  of  lace 
which  partly  concealed  a  tiny  letter.  It  was  a  charming 
little  piece. 


REVOLUTION  31 

The  carpet,  which  almost  covered  the  parquet  floor,  was 
as  pink  as  a  flowering  May  tree,  woven  in  one  piece  with  a 
medalHon  centre.  The  sofas  and  chairs  were  of  gilded 
cane,  with  masses  of  cushions  stuffed  with  down  and  cov- 
ered with  ivory  satin,  a  tone  darker  than  the  creamy  walls. 
There  were  brackets  on  the  walls,  holding  Terezia's  select 
library,  and  Terezia's  souvenirs,  and  Terezia's  collection 
of  fans;  a  jardiniere  filled  with  flowering  plants;  and  a 
work-table — a  gem — stuffed  with  rainbow  silks  and  cobweb 
muslins  and  thin  bright  needles  and  a  tiny  thimble  and  a 
pair  of  scissors,  sharp  as  anything.  Terezia  never  used 
her  coquet  work-table ;  it  was  there  to  impress  her  female 
friends. 

Of  course  she  received  in  her  bedroom,  and  she  drank 
her  morning  chocolate  in  bed,  raising  herself  on  one  dim- 
pled elbow,  smiling  up  at  the  "darling  Cupid"  (richly  gilt) 
festooning  her  lace  bed-curtains  which  were  lined  with 
shell-pink  muslin.  Having  finished  her  chocolate,  she 
would  stretch  her  long  fair  limbs  under  the  cosy  warmth 
of  her  pink  satin  quilt,  and  maybe  play  with  the  edge 
of  her  real-lace  edged  sheet.  She  was  lazy,  was  Terezia. 
Often  and  often  Christina  would  whip  like  a  thunderstorm 
into  her  young  lady's  highly-perfumed  chamber  and  rout 
her  out  of  bed.  "You  will  get  as  fat  as  a  pig,"  she  would 
menace. 

And  Terezia,  flushed,  warm,  indescribably  lovely,  would 
seek  her  absurd  little  slippers  in  no  time.  She  did  not  want 
"to  get  fat." 

A  year  later,  papa,  the  great  financier,  arrived  in  Paris. 
Terezia  met  him  in  a  wonderful  new  dress,  swept  him  a 
curtsy  of  truly  regal  magnificence,  had  her  hair  confined 
to  her  classic  head  by  two  gold  daggers,  and  looked,  in 
short,  the  perfection  of  budding  womanhood.  Papa  was 
immensely  pleased.  He  had  had  a  trying  business  year. 
His  blue  bills  still  fluttered,  but  the  storai  was  practically 
over,  the  storm  of  adulation  and  envy.  Only  malice  sur- 
vived.    His  Spanish  majesty,  backed  by  some  of  his  chief 


32  TORCHLIGHT 

advisers,  was  asking  questions.  M.  de  Carrabus  was  seri- 
ously displeased  with  his  Spanish  majesty.  Even  kings 
can  ask  too  much,  and  he  (Carrabus)  had  worked  so  hard 
to  please  everybody. 

It  was  indeed  a  pleasant  relaxation  to  forget  vexatious 
state  problems  and  babble  nonsense  with  his  delightful 
daughter.  (He'd  see  she'd  get  her  dot  safe  and  sound  out 
of  the  debacle.) 

He  had  not  been  a  day  in  Paris  before  he  had  inter- 
viewed his  bankers  and  arranged  matters  to  his  satisfac- 
tion. 

I  Had  Terezia  been  quite  a  good  little  girl  during  his  ab- 
sence, attended  to  her  lessons,  been  early  to  bed  and  early 
to  rise.f*  To  all  these  paternal  questions  Terezia  replied  in 
the  affirmative,  witli,  her  engaging  yet  vastly  dishonest 
smile. 

Only  Christina,  the  humble  watch-dog  Christina,  knew 
*'mam'selle"  was  telling  dear  papa  a  pack  of  falsehoods. 

The  time  in  Paris  had  certainly  not  passed  as  tran- 
quilly for  Terezia  as  Carrabus  had  been  given  to  under- 
stand. .  .  .  "It  is  impossible  to  keep  our  daughter  always 
at  her  tasks.  I  permit  her  now  and  again  the  relaxation 
of  the  society  agreeable  to  her.  She  is  fond  of  dancing 
and  making  new  acquaintances,  and  she  had  a  most  flatter- 
ing reception.  .  .  .'*  So  wrote  Marie- Antoinette  in  her 
stiff,  stilted  French. 

Papa  couldn't  help  admiring  his  daughter's  charming 
taste  and  charming  room  (it  was  an  interieur  to  please  the 
most  fastidious),  but  he  would  have  preferred  greater  sim- 
plicity. He  did  not  want  liis  girl  spoiled.  Mamma  raised 
her  meek  hands  at  this : — "She  spoils  herself,"  said  she. 
Another  word  of  wisdom  from  the  mouth  of  a  fool. 
[  Papa  heard  all  the  news,  interviewed  some  of  Terezia's 
admirers,  administered  his  parental  authority,  insisted  on 
obedience,  religion  and  love,  and  considered  that  money 
and  rank  were  worth  attention  from  a  matrimonial  point 
of  view. 

Then  his  own  affairs  called  him  back  to  troublesome 


REVOLUTION  33 

Spain.  His  last  evening  in  Paris  was  melancholy.  Marie- 
Antoinette  wept.  Terezia  clasped  her  father's  neck  with 
such  protesting  vigor  that  he  was  nigh  to  choking. 

"I  love  you,  papa,"  she  murmured.  "Stay  and  take 
care  of  your  own  Terezia."  He  gently  parted  the  too 
ardent  arms — they  were  bare  and  round  and  firm  as  mar- 
ble. "It  cannot  be,  my  darling.  Live  well — take  care  of 
yourself,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

BHnd,  blind  papa!  Such  needless  advice  to  daughter 
Terezia. 

She  flung  herself  at  his  feet  in  a  pose  of  ravishing  grace 
— as  M.  de  Fontenay  would  say — and  murmured  that  if 
papa  left  for  Spain  she'd  die,  die  of  sorrow  and  wounded 
affection. 

He  looked  very  concerned.  Looking  up  sharply  he  dis- 
covered the  placid  Marie-Antoinette  actually  sniffing. 
*'Stuff  and  nonsense,"  said  Marie-Antoinette.  "It  will 
take  more  than  that  to  kill  our  daughter." 

"Our  daughter" — in  her  ravishing  attitude  in  her  cling- 
ing makeshift  robe — she  was  en  deshabille — moaned  like 
a  little  crushed  dove,  just  a  wee  pipe,  but  nevertheless  in- 
finitely touching. 

The  great  financier  very  properly  scolded  his  wife. 

"Take  care  of  her,"  he  said  sternly.  "She  is  of  frailer 
stuff  than  you." 

"God  knows  it,"  said  Marie- Antoinette  piously. 

And  here,  rising  to  her  full  height — like  an  angel  in  a 
cloud  of  clinging  white — Terezia  moved  across  the  car- 
peted floor  and  embraced  her  mother  very  ardently. 
*'FaLther,"  she  said,  "I  can  trust  her.  She  loves  me,  even 
as  I  love  her.  ..."  There  was  an  irresistible  glamor 
about  the  young  girl.  Marie-Antoinette  beamed  as  a 
midday  sun.  "Enfin,  que  voulez-vous?"  she  said.  "She 
has  a  heart  of  gold,"  and  she  returned  her  daughter's 
embrace  warmly. 


CHAPTER   V 

GEORGES  DE  BOISGALOUP  sat  with  his  head  In  his 
hands,  hterally  stunned.  Terezia's  letter  fluttered  at 
his  feet.  He  was  unconscious  of  the  August  heat,  uncon- 
scious of  time,  unconscious  of  everything,  except  that 
Terezia  was — married.  If  he  had  been  on  the  spot  this 
would  never  have  happened !  She  had  been  forced  against 
her  will  to  marry  an  ogre — his  beautiful  princess,  the  only 
girl  he  would  ever  love !  His  life  was  over  and  done  with 
.  .  .  a  fly  tickled  his  nose,  he  whipped  it  passionately 
aside,  another  fly,  hundreds  of  flies  buzzed  on  the  clouded 
window-panes,  on  the  whitewashed  walls,  on  the  huge  black 
slate,  on  the  Doctor's  pulpit,  on  his  long  black  robe,  hang- 
ing on  a  tarnished  peg.  It  was  insufl'erably  close  and  hot, 
and  the  air  was  none  too  pure.  Ventilation  was  undreamed 
of  in  the  days  prior  to  the  Revolution.  .  .  .  How  his 
thoughts  chased  each  other — he  remembered  their  first 
meeting — her  shyness,  her  sweetness,  her  infinite  variety 
.  .  .  their  first  kiss  .  .  .  their  last  kiss  .  .  .  his  mother's 
insensate  anger  and  Terezia's  surprising  fortitude  in  the 
hour  of  peril.  Then,  as  a  menacing  shadow,  he  saw  his 
younger  brother — she'd  never  wavered  in  her  faith  (he 
smiled  wearily).  He  believed  in  her  through  thick  and 
thin,  in  spite  of  much  incriminating  evidence  he  held  to  her 
stoutly — she  could  do  no  wrong  .  .  .  and  then,  owing  to 
this  hateful  business  of  study,  they  had  to  part,  to  live 
on  promises,  to  starve  on  hope — damned  hope! 

He  bent  down  and  picked  up  the  scented  missive.  With 
trembling  lips  he  deciphered  her  somewhat  immature 
writing. 

.  .  .  "Georges,  I  am  in  despair,  but  circumstances  be- 
yond my  control  have  hurried  this  marriage.    I  can  truth- 

34 


REVOLUTIOlSr  35 

fully  say  that  in  marrying  M.  de  Fontenay  I  can  give  him 
both  my  Respect  and  Esteem,  but  as  you  know  my  heart 
is  not  in  the  matter.  I  will  always  love  you.  Think  of 
Terezia  kindly  .  .  .  and  if  we  meet?  No,  no!  under  the 
circumstances  it  would  be  insupportable !  My  life  is  made ; 
my  heart  is  broken.  Of  what  account  is  my  poor  beauty 
except  that  it  has  given  you,  my  cherished  friend,  some 
pleasure.''  My  appearance  no  longer  satisfies  me — I  am 
weary  of  everything  on  earth.  Let  us  suffer  together 
and  bravely  face  our  Destiny. 

"Terezia  de  Carrabus  Fontenay." 

The  hot  tears  welled  in  Georges'  blue  eyes.  He  had  a 
fair  and  gentle  appearance;  slim  and  very  tall^  he  gave 
one  the  impression  of  delicacy.  In  reality  he  was  strong 
as  steel. 

He  heard  footsteps  behind  him.  He  rose  hastily  to  his 
feet  and  met  the  half-cynical,  half-siilky  glance  of  his  class- 
mate, Bonaparte.  For  some  unknown  reason  he  had  taken 
a  fancy  to  the  thin,  unpopular  Corsican.  There  was 
something  in  the  grip  of  his  comrade's  hand  which  thrilled 
Georges.  Napoleon  was  poor  and  underfed,  and  yet  he 
got  through  more  solid  work  than  any  other  youth  at  the 
Academy.  He  never  boasted  of  his  endurance.  He  never 
opened  his  lips  unless  he  was  obliged  to — there  was  some- 
thing sinister  about  his  appearance. 

Bonaparte  laid  his  hand  on  Georges'  shoulder. 

"Take  it  calmly  whatever  it  is,"  he  said,  "and  above  all, 
try  and  conceal  j^our  feelings.  You'll  never  get  on  in  the 
world  if  you  don't." 

"I  don't  care  what  happens  to  me,"  said  Georges, 
brusquely. 

Napoleon  sat  down  astride  a  chair,  and  folded  his  arms 
across  the  back — under  lowering  brows  he  stared  at 
Georges. 

"Love  is  of  no  consequence  at  eighteen." 

The  other  started — "How  dare  you- 


5» 


"Why  tell  me?     Your  secret  is  no  secret." 


36  TORCHLIGHT 

"I'll  make  a  clean  breast  of  it."  He  opened  his  left  hand 
and  showed  Napoleon  a  little  crushed  letter,  written  on 
tinted  paper  with  violet  ink;  it  was  faintly  reminiscent  of 
the  scent  of  violets.  "I  adore  her.  This  is  to  tell  me  that 
she  is  married.  A  simple  enough  story,  and  I  daresay  you 
will  be  inclined  to  laugh.  If  so,  kindly  do  it  behind  my 
back." 

"I  don't  want  to  laugh.  Why  should  I.^^  All  women 
are  alike." 

"Excuse  me,  you  know  nothing  about  the  matter.  This 
lady" — he  tapped  and  carefully  refolded  Terezia's  letter 
and  placed  it  in  his  pocket-book — "is  entirely  original." 

"Is  she  beautiful.?" 

Georges  nodded. 

"Is  she  young.''" 

Georges  nodded. 

"Witty.?" 

"Yes !" 

"She  returns  your  love.?" 

Georges  bit  his  lips. 

"And  you  tell  me  she  is  original!  Why,  my  dear  Bois- 
galoup,  she  is  as  old  as  Eve." 

"Your  reasoning  wearies  me.  I  ask  you  to  respect  my 
confidence." 

"I  never  speak  unnecessarily."  He  dropped  his  arms 
and  stood  erect — a  lean  little  figure.  There  were  dark 
shadows  round  his  eyes.  "You  have  occasionally  stood 
my  friend." 

"That  was  nothing,"  said  Boisgaloup,  his  fair  skin  red- 
dening.    "It  is  an  infernal  shame  to  make  fun  of  you." 

"It  doesn't  in  the  least  affect  me." 

"No.?" 

"I  am  here  to  learn.  I  shall  be  able  to  retaliate  pres- 
ently.    I  have  the  instincts." 

"Much  good  they  do  you !" 

"Monsieur  de  Soissons  is  six  foot  three " 

The  other  smiled.  "You  won  there.  No  one  but  I 
would  back  you  against  such  odds." 


REVOLUTION  37 

"You  are  very  kind." 

"Don't  be  satirical.  It  is  one  of  your  worst  traits.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  that  is  why  the  fellows  don't  like  you. 
Whenever  you  can  you  ridicule  them.  You  are  clever 
enough  to  hurt  them." 

"You  are  very  kind." 

"There  you  are  again!  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with 
you !  Fight  your  own  battles."  Georges  put  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  glared  at  the  great  window. 

Bonaparte  strode  up  and  down  the  class-room.  He 
kicked  over  a  stool,  and  great  was  the  clatter  thereof.  *'If 
you  knew  how  I  despised  all  your  little  prejudices,  and 
your  insufferable  arrogance,"  he  said,  coming  to  a  stand- 
still— his  whole  face  aflame.  "You  are  all  as  blind  as  bats. 
You  see  nothing,  because  you  refuse  to  listen  to  reason. 
And  the  storm  is  coming.  There  will  be  a  wild  stampede 
one  day  and  you  will  pray  for  your  leader " 

"Ho,  ho,"  sneered  Boisgaloup,  thorouglily  aroused. 
"Whv  don't  you  come  forward  and  apply  for  the  situa- 
tion?" 

Bonaparte  leaned  over  Georges.     "I  wiU,"  he  said. 

Boisgaloup  bowed  ironically.  "I  hope  you'll  conde- 
scend to  offer  me  a  post  under  you.'"' 

"I  will." 

"A  thousand  thanks." 

Bonaparte  yawned.  "Forgive  my  plain  speaking.  Your 
acting  is  the  feeblest  stuff  I  have  ever  seen.  I  believe  in 
your  real  side.  Even  in  this  tragic  love  affair  you  have 
my  warmest  sympathy." 

Boisgaloup  lost  all  command  of  himself.  He  flung  out 
his  hand  and  rushed  headlong  out  of  the  room. 

Bonaparte  looked  after  him.  For  two  or  three  minutes 
he  stood  immovable  as  a  stone  image.  Then  he  turned  and 
walked  over  to  his  desk.  When  the  class,  summoned  by  the 
great  bell,  some  two  hours  later,  filed  into  the  hall  they 
found  him  poring  over  his  books.  Soissons  spoke  to  him, 
and  received  nothing  but  a  glassy  stare.     Another  youth 


38  TORCHLIGHT 

humorously  caught  hold  of  his  quill,  and  sent  it  spurting 
across  in  the  direction  of  the  learned  Doctor's  desk. 
"Wake  up,  old  Methuselah!"  he  shouted  in  his  ear.  Na- 
poleon opened  his  pen-box  and  searched  for  another  pen. 
The  Doctor  rapped  his  desk.     "Silence,  gentlemen!" 


CHAPTER    VI 

TXZE  have  marched  a  year  ahead.  Much  has  happened, 
^  *      and  the  pot  is  still  seething. 

There  is  talk  in  high  places ;  secret  missions ;  secret 
assignations — even  the  queen  has  lost  some  of  her  tranquil 
dairymaid  calm.  She  still  plays  at  butter-making,  but 
she  frequently  looks  to  the  door  .  .  .  the  door  is  locked. 
Admittance  only  on  parole.  Unnecessary  precaution — 
a  game  en  plus,  so  says  the  fat  and  tranquil  Louis — he 
has  a  noble,  yea,  a  kingly  presence,  but  sometimes  (even 
as  she  loves  him)  the  queen  doubts  him — no,  not  him — his 
methods. 

She  has  even  tried  to  wake  him  up.  "The  times  are  bad 
— a  little  more  energy,  a  spark  more  of  royal  contempt, 
of  Bourbon  pride,  Louis ;  it  would  not  hurt  and  it  might 
help  matters."     So  speaks  the  queen. 

His  majesty  smiles.  In  two  strides  he  covers  her  pri- 
vate boudoir — a  tiny  place,  all  gilding,  festoons,  and  mir- 
rors— and  the  queen  watches  him  narrowly  in  her  looking- 
glass — he  is  administering  justice  to  the  dauphin;  in 
make-belief  wrath  he  asks  the  meaning  of  his  royal  high- 
ness's  impertinence?  His  royal  highness  laughs  the 
louder;  he  is  not  afraid  of  the  king. 

"Is  that  as  you  would  have  it?"  says  Louis,  floundering 
down  on  a  tiny  sofa  and  wiping  his  heated  brow.  "There 
is  a  storm  brewing."  He  taps  his  chest.  "I  can  hardly 
breathe.  Come  here,  you  little  vagabond !  The  king  must 
be  obeyed.  .  .  .  You  see,  your  majesty,  how  they  treat 
me? — it  Is  worrying." 

He  turns  towards  the  queen  who  is  busy  writing  at  her 
little  desk. 


39 


40  TORCHLIGHT 


"What  are  you  doing  there,  madame?" 

"I  am  writing  to  my  father." 

"I  beg  of  you  to  send  him  my  greetings." 

The  queen  looks  up.  There  is  the  shadow  of  some  awful 
calamity  in  her  eyes. 

The  king  perceives  that  she  is  not  herself.  He  lumbers 
up  from  the  sofa,  crosses  the  room  on  tiptoe,  and,  bending 
down,  he  puts  his  arm  around  her  neck.  Then  he  pats  her 
on  the  back  with  fatherly  good-nature. 

"Whatever  happens  we  have  each  other  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  Madame  Elizabeth.     God  is  good." 

The  queen  drops  her  little  pen.  She  leans  her  proud 
head  against  her  husband's  shoulder  and  bursts  into  tears. 

"It  is  the  weather,"  he  says  consolingly,  "only  the 
weather.  .   .   ." 

For  once  his  majesty  was  right.  The  weather  broke 
that  night  in  a  pitiless  hailstorm.  Never  in  the  memory  of 
man  had  there  been  such  a  storm.  In  and  round  about 
Paris  the  damage  done  was  frightful.  It  was  the  month 
of  July,  and  the  corn  was  ripening  for  harvest. 

The  fields  were  swept  clean  as  if  an  army  of  locusts  had 
passed  over  them — the  proud  grain  was  beaten  and  laid 
level  with  the  earth.  The  storm  broke  over  Paris  at  her 
gayest  hour — just  before  midnight.  .  .  .  Hist!  listen! 
Down  poured  the  deluge  and  the  wind  piped  high  and  heat- 
flashes  (corn  lightning)  lit  the  blackened  sky.  One  saw 
and  yet  one  did  not  see.  The  gutters  ran  with  water; 
children  shrieked  in  terror,  dishevelled  women  ran  out  on 
the  streets  peering  here — peering  there — where  were  their 
husbands  in  their  hour  of  need?  It  was  God's  punishment. 
And  the  storm  grew  in  fury ;  the  hailstones  rattled  down 
the  ill-paved  streets — the  gutters  ran  as  rivers,  and  blue 
lightning  lit  the  torrid  sky.  With  it  all  a  stifling,  brood- 
ing, intolerable  heat. 

There  were  many  homeless  people  in  Paris  that  night, 
starving  people  who  had  wandered  in  from  the  great  by- 
ways ;  there  was  no  food  in  the  country,  and  they  were 
here  to  look  for  work,  stalwart,  patient  men,  and  women 


REVOLUTION  '41 

less  patient.  The  women  were  the  most  blasphemous — 
wicked,  obscene  language  floated  over  the  heads  of  their 
hungry  little  ones.    Work?    Where  could  they  find  it? 

Terezia  was  frightened.  She  lay  trembling  on  her  velvet 
couch,  shutting  her  eyes. 

The  curtains  were  drawn,  wax  lights  blazed  on  madame*s 
toilet-table,  and  over  madame's  fuU-length  dress  mirror. 

"Put  them  out,"  she  commanded.  "Where  is  Claire?  If 
only  Claire  was  here  I  would  feel  much  safer." 

The  hail  tore  at  the  spacious  gardens  of  the  Chateau  de 
Fontenay ;  delicate  shrubs  were  literally  plucked  up  by  the 
roots  and  flung  on  high ;  on  the  slate  roof  of  the  castle  the 
huffe  stones  beat  a  merciless  tattoo. 

"I  am  frightened,"  moaned  Terezia. 

"Try  and  go  to  sleep,"  said  Christina,  who  sat  in  one 
corner  of  the  big  room,  by  a  shaded  lamp,  tranquilly  but- 
ton-holing a  cambric  jacket. 

She  looked  older  than  of  yore.  Christina  had  passed 
through  troubled  waters.  M.  Carrabus'  inability  to  keep 
in  office  (and  his  incidental  flight)  had  surprised  and 
pained  her.  Madame  de  Carrabus  was  no  longer  in  Paris. 
Six  months  ago  she  had  left  France  to  join  her  husband. 
She  had  refused  to  take  Christina  with  her.  "Someone 
must  stay  behind  and  look  after  our  daughter,"  she  had 
said. 

Christina  sighed  as  she  drew  her  needle  in  and  out  of  the 
delicate  fabric.  Her  eyes  had  grown  very  keen  of  late. 
She  bitterly  regretted  this  gift  of  sight.  She  had  been 
given  to  understand — by  many  disgraceful  circumstances 
— that  Terezia  was — well,  not  a  model  of  all  the  virtues. 
It  hurt  Christina;  she  felt  less  pride  in  the  marquise's 
beauty  now  she  know  that  it  was  alHcd  to  many  paltry  and 
ignoble  traits  of  character.  She  had  let  her  mother  go, 
trembling,  horrified — half  realizing  the  bitterness  of  per- 
sonal disgrace,  but  without  the  flimsiest  pretence  of  grief. 
True,  young  madame  had  at  the  time  been  much  taken  up 
with  a  ro^^al  masquerade ;  she  was  one  of  the  patronesses  of 
the  ball  and  had  felt  her  responsibility.  .  .  .  And  all  the 


42  TORCHLIGHT 

love  she  protested — and  all  the  love  she  wasted!  If  ever 
there  was  a  stem  old  maid  it  was  Christina.  The  spectacle 
of  her  mistress's  unlicensed  love  affairs  had  taught  her  to 
hate  men.  Thej  were  all  alike  so  she  told  herself — im- 
worthy  of  an  honest  woman's  respect.   .    .    . 

She  kept  her  tongue  in  bounds  by  sheer  force  of  habit. 
She  had  promised  Marie-Antoinette  to  look  after  "her 
darling."  .  .  .  Christina  smiled  grimly  and  bit  off  her 
thread. 

A  baby's  sobbing  brought  her  instantly  to  her  feet. 
Christina  flung  down  her  work  and  ran  across  the  yielding 
carpet  (all  was  luxury  in  madame's  bedroom),  and  bent 
down,  cooing,  smiling,  adoringly  over  an  oraate  cradle. 
The  cradle  was  very  gilt,  very  lacey,  very  pink  (madame 
had  made  up  her  mind  she  would  have  a  daughter,  if  only 
to  bestow  upon  her  the  incomparable  inheritance  of 
beauty). 

"The  little  wretch,  he  is  always  howling.  Take  him 
away,"  said  Terezia,  fretfully,  half-turning  on  the  sofa, 
and  half-opening  her  eyes.      "I  was  sleeping." 

"My  precious !"  said  Christina.  She  took  up  the  baby 
and  cuddled  him  close  to  her  spare  bosom. 

"I  wish  he  had  been  yours.  Listen,  Christina!"  (the 
wind  howled) .  "I  know  I  shall  go  mad !"  Terezia  sat  up 
and  passed  her  hand  across  her  dry  eyes. 

Christina,  still  holding  the  baby,  walked  over  to  his 
mother  and  put  him  down  in  her  lap. 

He  was  not  a  beautiful  specimen;  wizened,  with  great 
big  reproachful  eyes.  Terezia  had  not  treated  him  well. 
Prior  to  his  birth  it  had  been  impossible  for  her  to 
remember  her  condition — and  then — ugh,  wasn't  he  his 
father's  child?  Terezia  on  the  very  day  of  his  birth — a 
month  ago — had  detected  a  similarity  of  expression.  And 
though  the  poor  little  mite  had  been  born  with  a  crop  of 
dense  black  hair,  he  had  already  begun  to  grow  down  of  a 
reddish  tint.  "Every  day  he  grows  more  ugly — more  re- 
pellent." Terezia  never  minced  her  words.  Women  of  her 
(disposition  revel  in  adjectives.     When  she  was  happy  she 


REVOLUTION  43 

was  "gloriously  happy,"  when  unhappy  (a  frequent  state 
of  affairs)  "there  was  no  more  miserable  wretch  in  the 
kingdom."  The  two  states  knew  no  intermediate  line. 
Like  her  beauty  her  mood  was  flamingly  apparent. 

Maternity  suited  Madame  la  marquise  de  Fontenay 
(old  Ravoral  had  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  he'd  paid 
her  his  first  visit  of  congratulation).  She  had  risen  from 
her  confinement  with  a  skin  of  such  dazzling  purity  and 
eyes  of  such  extraordinary  brilliancy  that  her  very  physi- 
cal perfection  astounded  her   friends. 

Terezia  touched  the  baby.  He  had  stopped  crying  and 
was  smiling  as  if  half  realizing  a  rare  treat. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  she  said.  "How  funny  it  seems  to 
be  so  tiny.  Look  at  his  hands"  (she  uncurled  his  fingers), 
"they  are  really  rather  sweet." 

Christina   beamed. 

"You'll  grow  to  love  him  yet." 

"Christina,  you  are  an  old  fool.  Why  will  you  believe 
in  me.'"' 

"For  old  times'  sake." 

The  girl-mother  nodded  and  tickled  her  son's  neck. 
"Once  upon  a  time  I  was  a  dear  little  girl,"  she  told  him, 
"so  obedient  (was  I  ever  obedient,  Christina .P),  so  prim, 
so  painstaking.  Here,  take  him,  Christina — ^he  is  so  hot. 
Don't  look  like  a  thunder-cloud.  Ai!  there  is  something 
struck!"  She  jumped  to  her  feet,  flew  across  the  room 
and  pushed  back  the  heavy  curtains.  "I  can't  see  any- 
thing.     It  is  horribly  dark." 

A  vivid  sheet  of  lightning  played  above  the  dense  woods ; 
in  an  instant  and  for  an  instant  the  whole  grounds  were  lit 
up.  Across  the  courtyard  clattered  a  pair  of  horsemen — 
darkness. 

Terezia  had,  however,  glimpsed  M.  de  Fontenay.  "It 
serves  him  right,"  she  said.  "Won't  he  be  in  a  rage !  He 
is  as  frightened  of  water  as  a  cat.  I  expect  they  are 
drenched  to  the  bone,  I  hope  he  will  stay  in  bed  and  let 
Charles  cosset  him,  and  you  can  brew  him  one  of  your 
famous  drinks — as  long  as  I  don't  see  him.    Christina  .  .  . 


U  TORCHLIGHT 

Christina !  I  refuse  to  be  left  alone !  Where  are  you  go- 
ing to?" 

"It  is  time  for  his  milk.  Charlotte!  Charlotte!"  She 
went  through  the  big  door  calling  for  *'that  lazy  baggage 
— the  wet  nurse.  .  .  ." 

Of  course  the  women  were  bound  to  quarrel.  Christina 
was  ludicrously  jealous  of  Charlotte's  enormous  privileges. 
It  rather  amused  Terezia — that  is  to  say  when  she  was 
utterly  at  a  loss  for  amusement. 

Now  she  stood  listening,  one  finger  to  her  lips.  She  was 
thinking  hard.  Then  she  smiled.  "I'U  chance  it,"  she  said. 
"Life  is  too  horribly  dull — I  adore  thrills  and  excitement, 
and  why,  to  please  one  man's  insensate  temper,  should  I 
shut  myself  up  as  a  hermit?  I  have  given  him  a  son.  My 
conscience  is  perfectly  en  regie — I  can  afford  my  little 
pleasures   .  .  .  mori  tres  cher  Adolf." 

She  seated  herself  at  her  pretty  writing-table  and  fever- 
ishly scribbled  a  note,  presumably  to  her  "tres  cher 
Adolf." 

Her  heart  beat  rapidly.  She  felt  intensely  alive.  The 
little  letter,  which  she  presently  addressed  in  a  careful 
hand,  was  packed  full  with  lies  and  passion.  She  wrote  a 
very  good  love-letter  considering  she  only  worked  from 
imagination. 

She  lay  down  presently  on  her  chaise  longtie — face  down- 
wards on  the  little  soft  feather  pillow,  sprinkled  with  riolet 
perfume.  Her  long  limbs  were  stretched  in  slothful  repose. 
With  a  gentle  beat  of  her  finger-tips  she  made  her  calcu- 
lations— if  no  untoward  incident  occurred  she  was  as  safe 
as  le  petit  Georges  .  .  .  she  passed  her  tongue  over  splen- 
did lips  .   .   .  until  to-morrow  was  a  whole  eternity. 

Suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  the  hailstorm  ceased. 

Terezia  fell  fast  asleep.  And  the  little  note,  which  she 
had  so  artistically  penned,  inconsiderately  slipped  from 
her  hand  to  the  floor. 

Monsieur  le  mari — half  out  of  a  sense  of  duty  and  half 
out  of  suspicion — as  soon  as  he  had  donned  dry  clothes  and 
drunk  a  cup  of  hotdllon,  knocked  at  madarae's  door;  get- 


REVOLUTION  45 

ting  no  answer,  he  boldly  entered  the  room,  walking,  in  his 
comfortable  velvet  slippers,  as  noiselessly  as  a  cat  across 
the  floor.  He  stopped  by  madame's  couch,  and  watched 
her  flushed  face,  the  smile  of  her  half-opened  "rosebud" 
mouth.  (He  did  not  flatter  himself  that  she  was  dream- 
ing agreeably  of  her  "great  big  tyrant.")  By  chance  his 
eyes  fell  away  from  madame's  enchantingly  rounded  elbow 
to  the  side  of  the  sofa ;  noticing  a  letter  on  the  floor,  he 
picked  it  up ;  he  looked  at  it,  and  pocketed  it.  Then, 
silently  as  he  had  entered,  monsieur  made  his  departure. 

Terezia,  needless  to  say,  when  she  discovered  her  loss 
and  her  "indescribable  folly,"  worked  herself  up  into  a 
state  of  feverish  excitement. 

Practical  Christina  soothed  her  as  well  as  she  might. 

"It  is  very  late,  long  past  midnight.  Nothing  can  be 
done  to-night.  Just  you  go  to  sleep,  like  a  dear  child.  The 
angels  will  watch  over  you." 

"Nonsense!  What  do  I  care  about  the  angels.''  You 
must  make  inquiries   at   once." 

"And  awaken  suspicion?" 

"Find  out  who  has  stolen  my  letter.  It's  is  positively 
indecent  the  way  I  am  treated  in  my  own  house !  I  am  sur- 
rounded by  spies,  by  enemies — by  monsieur's  inflexible 
hatred.  He  hates  me!  It  is  his  only  joy  to  cause  me 
pain." 

Christina  threw  back  the  sheets  on  the  great  bed.  Then 
she  took  forcible  hold  of  the  excited  marchioness  (aged  just 
sixteen),  and  with  considerable  muscular  power  assisted 
her  into  bed.  "I  won't  answer  a  single  question,"  she  said 
sternly.  "I'll  never  help  you  again  as  long  as  you  live  if 
you  don't  do  as  I  tell  you.     Take  it  calmly,  madame.'* 

Terezia,  looking  very  dejected,  said  Christina  was  a 
brute,  and  that  she  truly  and  honestly  disliked  her,  and 
that  she  had  long  suspected  her  of  being  heartless. 

Christina  meanwhile  was  quietly  folding  her  mistress's 
clothes  and  putting  the  room  in  order. 

Terezia  sat  up  in  bed.  "You  are  not  even  listening  to 
me.     It  is  the  very  height  of  insolence!     I  will  make  my 


46  TORCHLIGHT 

arrangements.    M.  de  Lameth  will  protect  me.    He  adores 


me." 


*'When  will  jou  realize  the  folly  of  putting  pen  to 
paper?"  Christina  blew  out  the  lights  on  the  dressing- 
table. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"There  may  be  a  duel." 

"A  duel !  A  duel !  M.  de  Fontenay  can  storm  and  back- 
bite and  kick  up  fearful  rows,  but  he'd  never  hazard  an 
honest  fight,     I  know  my  man." 

"After  all,  madame,  he  is  a  gentleman." 

"Come  here,  Christina,  and  I  will  tell  you  something 
which  I  always  meant  to  keep  to  myself  because  I  am  so 
ashamed  of  the  whole  disgraceful  affair.  Nearer.  I  am 
not  going  to  shout." 

Christina  bent  over  her  and  buttoned  madame's  fragile 
nightdress.     "What   is   it?" 

"Such  a  scandal.  So  much  for  his  boasted  lineage!" 
(she  snapped  her  fingers).  "You  remember  the  story  of 
his  family  jewels?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"You  are  not  in  a  witness-box,  or  in  a  church.  Don't 
be  so  stiff,  Christina.  I  am  sorry  I  was  nasty  just  now. 
You  are  not  a  brute,  really.    Forgive  me." 

"There,  there,  my  precious.  I  would  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  you,  if  you  would  only  be  good." 

"I  promise  faithfully " 

Christina  sighed  and  regarded  her  "little  baby"  with  an 
exquisite  and  rare  smile.  After  all,  why  should  she  con- 
demn her,  sinful  as  she  was?  Youth  and  beauty  have  their 
privileges. 

Terezia  fondled  the  faithful  creature's  hand.  "It  is  all 
a  fraud,"  she  said.  "He  is  only  a  mushroom  marquis — the 
son  of  a  low  tradesman,  and  the  grandson  of  a  lacquey. 
He  bought  the  title,  he  bought  the  jewels,  he  bought  me !" 
She  nodded  her  head.  "It  is  every  bit  true.  Isn't  it 
awful?  Christina,  dear  Christina,  you'll  send  a  message  to 
M.  LongueviUe?    He  is  my  only  friend.    I  can  trust  him. 


REVOLUTION  47 

He  respects  me,  and  he's  very  sorry  for  my  abominable 
position.  Though  I  knew  nothing,  it  was  an  open  secret 
at  the  time  of  our  marriage.  And  how  he  boasted,  and 
mamma  too,  of  his  splendid  position  and  fortune.  I  don't 
believe  he  has  even  got  money.  I  am  sure  he  is  crippled 
by  debts ;  or  else  he  is  the  meanest  monster  alive.  Is  it 
any  wonder  I  despise  and  hate  him?     I  am  so  young." 

Christina  bit  her  lips  and  scowled.  "I  always  felt  there 
was  something  wrong.  You  will  be  revenged  yet.  Take 
my  word  for  it." 


"How?" 

"How  can  I  say?     I  am  no  sorceress." 


'I  wish  you  were ;  then  you  could  turn  him  into  a  tad- 
pole and  drown  him  comfortably  in  the  pond,  and  no  one 
would  accuse  j^ou  of  murder.  If  a  man  behaves  as  a  toad, 
why  shouldn't  he  be  treated  as  a  toad?  Monsieur  de  Fon- 
tenay  has  behaved  infamously." 

"Who  has  told  you  all  this?" 

"Monsieur   de   Ravoral." 

"Just  like  his  impertinence.  Can't  he  mind  his  own 
business?" 

"He   knew  we   were   always  quarrelling." 

"A  fine  way  of  making  peace." 

*'He  acted  for  the  best.  I  have  a  clear  cf^se  against  mon- 
sieur le  marquis ;  I'll  divorce  him  for  incompatibility  of 
temper."  (She  yawned.)  "I  am  awfully  sleepy.  Good 
night,  dear  Christina.  I  feel  much  calmer.  Get  word  to 
Monsieur  Longueville,  and  I  will  forgive  everything." 
She  banged  at  her  pillow — "It  Is  hard."  (Christina 
shook  it.)  "That  is  better.  Of  course,  when  I  was  asleep 
DevIn  crept  into  the  room  and  stole  my  letter.  That  is 
perfectly  clear.  He'll  have  no  scruples  about  reading 
it."  She  laughed  heartily.  "Oh,  Christina,  it  Is  such  a 
letter!  I  expect  his  hair  will  be  green  to-morrow — Chris- 
tina?  " 

"Go  to  sleep.'» 

"In  a  minute.     Is  the  door  bolted  to  the  passage?" 

"Yes." 


48  TORCHLIGHT 

"To  the  nursery?" 

"No." 

"Then  for  mercy's  sake  lock  it  carefully.  There  is 
murder  in  the  air." 

"Good-night." 

"Good-night.  .  .  .  How  I  wish  I  had  Adolf  here  to 
protect  me  .  .  ."  she  called  drowsily. 

"The  idea!"  snapped  Christina. 


CHAPTER   VII 

ly/T ID-DAY — a  week  later.  Monsieur  de  Fontenay  is 
■^'-^  standing  very  erect  by  the  ornate  chimney-piece  in 
his  own  magnificent  salon.  On  her  knees  Terezia  — 
Terezia  very  smart  in  an  "adorable  costume"  (to  quote 
herself),  wlute  organdie  muslin,  patterned  with  tiny  pink 
rosebuds,  over  a  white  satin  slip ;  a  wide  sash  of  blue  silk, 
touching  her  little  high-heeled,  buckled  shoes ;  her  hair  ar- 
ranged in  a  profusion  of  curls,  golden,  perfumed,  glisten- 
ing; on  her  wrist,  dangling  by  blue  ribbons,  to  match  her 
sash,  a  wide  Leghorn  hat  trimmed  with  shaded  pink  roses 
— in  her  eyes  a  mutinous  and  yet  imploring  expression. 

".  .  .  See,  I  kneel  to  you,"  she  said.  "I  ask  your  par- 
don— only  let  me  out !  For  one  week  I  have  suffered  ex- 
cruciating agony.  I  feel  I  am  dying.  For  one  week  you 
have  kept  me  literally  behind  lock  and  key  and  made  the 
most  frightful  insinuations  against  my  character.  In 
reality  there  lives  no  better  woman  in  France." 

Terezia  ended  her  speech,  and  raised  imploring  eyes  to 
the  ornate  ceiling.  Then  she  sighed  profoundly — doubled 
up  as  it  were  (an  extraordinarily  pliant  woman),  she  al- 
most touched  the  floor  with  her  golden  curls,  and  let  the 
*'most  adorable  hat  in  Paris"  trail  in  the  dust.  This  last 
is  but  a  figure  of  speech  to  represent  Terezia's  Incalculable 
self-pity — there  was  not  a  particle  of  dust  in  madame's 
salon. 

Flowers,  pretty  furniture,  lovely  pictures,  a  miniature 
library,  a  harp  (of  course),  and  an  ivory  and  gold  harp- 
sichord— if  only  the  spirit  of  harmony  and  love  had 
reigned  In  this  charming  room,  what  an  enviable  frame 
it  would  have  been  for  a  pretty  woman! 

49 


50  TORCHLIGHT 

The  fly  in  the  ointment  was  very  apparent.  The  fly  In 
this  case  was  red-headed,  apoplectic  and  domineering, 
sneering — Insufferably  superior. 

"No,"  he  said  icily.  "I  am  going  to  be  master  in  my 
own  house !  As  you  cannot,  madame,  behave  properly, 
you  must  be  taught  manners.  I  won't  be  made  the  laugh- 
ing-stock of  all  Paris."  Devin  stroked  his  bristly 
moustache,  and  stamped  his  feet. 

"I  did  no  wrong.     You  yourself  admit  the  letter  was 
.   ,   .  (sobs)  never  .    .    .   delivered." 

"Get  up  from  the  floor,  and  don't  whine.  Who  has  paid 
for  that  dress?  I  married  a  pauper,  the  daughter  of  a 
common  swindler " 

"You  fiend !"  She  rose  with  surprising  agility,  sprang 
forward,  and  with  her  little  hand  wide  outspread,  she 
soundly  boxed  monsieur's  very  visible  ears. 

Lord,  a  bully  cannot  stand  a  straight  attack!  Tere- 
zla's  heart  contracted,  at  first,  in  terror  at  her  dramatic 
effort  and  then  leaped  In  bubbling  dehght  at  the  effect  of 
her  action. 

Monsieur  collapsed  like  a  spent  bubble ;  he  shivered. 

"Don't,"  he  said.  "For  mercy's  sake  remember  your 
dignity — and  mine."     His  teeth  chattered. 

The  roses  in  Terezia's  cheeks  matched  the  roses  on  her 
garlanded  hat. 

"You  to  lecture  me,"  she  said  slowly,  towering  over  the 
little  man.  "I  have  long  known  the  truth — of  this,  par 
exemple."  (She  stroked  a  jeweled  brooch  set  as  a  basket 
with  different  precious  stones  which  she  wore  at  her 
breast.)  .  .  .  "An  heirloom  once  in  the  possession  of 
Marie  de  Rohan — a  brooch  of  great  intrinsic  worth,  but 
of  still  greater  sentimental  value."  She  turned  and  looked 
out  of  the  great  French  window  on  to  a  high  terrace — a 
wide  sweep  of  landscape  garden  below,  bathed  in  July 
sunshine.     "And  this  old  family  estate,  sacred  to  many 

memories "     She  looked  monsieur  straight  in  the  face. 

"Behold    the    owner    of    all    this    splendor — the    signeur 
steeped  in  noble  traditions — the  representative  of  a  famous 


REVOLUTION  51 

name — ^You  see  I  remember.  I  really  have  quite  a  good 
memory." 

The  blood  receded  from  de  Fontenay's  face.  His  eyes 
bulged,  and  his  lips  trembled.  If  his  life  had  depended  on 
it  he  could  not  have  answered  the  beautiful,  mocking 
creature. 

"You  made  a  fool  of  me,"  she  said  calmly.  "Had  I 
loved  you  I  would  have  been  furious.  As  it  happens  it  is 
for  me  a  matter  of  complete  indifference.  I  would  have 
loathed  you  just  as  much  had  you  been  the  son  of  a  hun- 
dred heroes  instead  of  the  child  of  a  sausage  manufac- 
turer. Marseilles,  I  believe?  Sausages  must  have  been 
popular — or  haven't  you  paid  for  the  jewels  and  the 
chateau?  Don't  tell  me  any  tiling.  In  any  case  I  wouldn't 
believe  you." 

"You  may  sneer,  madame.  My  father  was  an  honest 
citizen.     His  excellency,  the  Comte  de  Carrabus " 

"My  father  is   a   good  man." 

*'A  fraudulent  banker " 


'He   created   joy " 

"On  the  brink  of  a  precipice- 


"Some  of  us  are  bound  to  go  over.  Papa  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  miscalculate  his  distance." 

"A  common  felon,  madame." 

"Remember  I  am  his  daughter !" 

*'A  disreputable " 

"The  most  beautiful  woman  in  France !  And  I  take  it 
the  saints  forgive  my  behavior — nay,  encourage  it.  It  is 
their  way  of  making  amends  for  my  deplorable  mar- 
riage. .  .  ."  She  folded  her  hands  very  piously.  "Have 
I  not  shown  heavenly  resignation  to  an  unkind  fate?" 
She  leaned  over  towards  him.  "Now  are  we  even,"  she 
whispered,  and  touched  him  lightly  on  his  arm.  "Let  me 
go  my  own  way,  and  I  will  never  breathe  the  word  sausages 
again.  I  will  wear  the  Rohan  jewels  in  perfect  good  faith 
■ — I  will,  to  my  friends,  speak  kindly  of  my  good-natured 
husband.  .  .  .  Hein?  Is  it  a  bargain,  my  great  big 
tyrant?" 


52  TORCHLIGHT 

He  stroked  his  moustache. 

"It  is  all  a  lie " 

"I'll  agree — on  condition " 

"What  do  you  want" 

Madame  pointed  her  finger  to  a  delightful  carriage, 
which  at  that  moment  swept  past  the  window,  and  dropped 
a  deep  curtsy.  "I  want  monsieur's  gracious  permission 
to  drive  into  Paris  to  meet  my  friends.  Monsieur  will 
remember  that  Madame  Vigee  Lebrun  is  at  present  en- 
gaged in  painting  my  portrait — it  is  most  important  that 
the  sittings  are   continued." 

"On  condition  you  return  home  to-night." 

"I  make  no  conditions." 

"I  won't  have  it !" 

She  drew  on  her  soft  kid  glove,  smootliing  it  carefully 
on  her  arm.  "You  can  be  quite  at  ease.  I  am  staying 
with  the  Cardilacs.  Claire  insists  on  it.  She  is  a  great 
dear,  is  little  Claire.  I  love  her."  She  sighed.  "It  is  a 
perfect  day.  I  intend  to  have  a  lovely  time.  Au  revoir, 
my  dear  Devin.  Look  after  le  petit  Georges.  He  was 
crying  for  you  last  night." 

He  could  not  find  words  to  answer  her  superb  Insolence. 

He  not  only  let  her  go,  but  he  conducted  her  to  her  car- 
riage— waving  the  grim  Christina  aside,  and  folding  the 
rug  about  her  delicate  dress. 

Terezia  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight.  She  could 
not  help  beckoning  Christina  on  the  off-side  of  the  car- 
riage and  whispering  in  her  ear: 

"He  is  a  vile  little  toad  and  I  have  squashed  him  to 
jelly. "_ 

Christina  scowled  so  ferociously  at  this  remark  that  the 
very  coachman,  who  happened  to  look  round,  almost 
<Jropped  his  reins.  But  Terezia  laughed  as  an  irrepres- 
sible,  happy   child : 

"Partons!"  she  cried.     "A  I'avenir!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FOR  Terezia,  engrossed  by  her  own  pleasant  thoughts, 
the  dusty  drive  into  Paris  passed  rapidly  enough. 

She  hardly  glanced  at  the  desolate  fields  or,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  remembered  the  hail-storm  which  had  done 
all  the  damage.  The  sun  was  shining;  there  was  a  deli- 
cious breeze — and  she  had  triumphantly  got  her  own 
way!  Sufficient  cause  to  drive  away  any  melancholy 
thoughts. 

Now  and  again  with  half-pitying  contempt  for  their 
laziness  she  would  glance  at  the  pedestrians  who,  singly  or 
in  groups,  were  plodding  towards  Paris.  They  all  looked 
repulsive;  unwashed,  with  evil  expressions.  One  or  two 
women  actually  raised  a  fist  and  shook  it  at  her  pretty 
carriage,  accompanying  the  unbecoming  gesture  with  gut- 
tural and  utterly  unbecoming  language.  Happily  Terezia 
didn't  catch  their  remarks  or  understand  their  rude  patois. 
Probably  her  coachman  did;  the  nearer  they  approached 
the  city  the  more  he  urged  his  gallant  grays  to  their  top- 
most speed.  Terezia  liked  a  good  pace.  She  only  laughed 
when  the  wheels  of  the  carriage  caught  in  an  extra  deep 
rut  which  nearly  tossed  her  out  on  the  dirty  roadside. 
The  carriage  righted  itself  by  a  miracle ;  indeed  the  public 
roads  were  shockingly  kept. 

They  entered  Paris  and  drove  to  M.  Cardilac's  house, 
which  was  situated  opposite  the  Bank  of  France. 

Terezia,  assisted  by  her  little  pocket  mirror,  adjusted  a 
wind-blown  curl,  pulled  at  a  ribbon  and  smoothed  her 
very  smooth  cheeks  with  an  infinitesimal  wisp  of  cambric, 
dipped  in  some  toilet  unguent. 

PouflF!  The  town  smellcd  horrible!  and  what  a  lot  of 
common  people  about !  What  wretches  to  walk  calmly  in 
the  middle  of  the  streets  and  hinder  her  progress ! 

53 


54  TORCHLIGHT 

Terezia  snapped  the  lid  of  her  dear  little  gilt  etui,  which 
contained  her  cooling  lotion  (an  infallible  remedy  against 
sunburn  and  heat),  and  spoke  to  her  coachman. 

"Hurry,"  she  said.  "As  it  is  I  am  late.  Tell  those 
people  to  get  out  of  the  way." 

She  in  her  turn  shook  her  little  jeweled  fist  (it  was  so  hot 
she  had  taken  off  her  gloves)  at  an  excitable  group  of 
men  and  women  standing  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  stretching  horribly  thin  and  eager  necks  at  an  ef- 
figy, carried  aloft  by  one  of  their  members — a  veritable 
giant  he,  with  arms  as  of  a  bronzed  Hercules. 

The  coachman  had  to  pull  up  his  horses.  He  shouted 
to  the  crowd — it  shouted  back  at  him,  without  budging 
an  inch. 

Terezia  smiled  at  a  man  in  the  crowd — a  stalwart 
peasant,  almost  good-looking  in  spite  of  his  scowl.  The 
youth  stared  back  at  the  lady  and  spat  on  the  ground. 
Terezia  turned  her  charming  head  in  another  direction  and 
met  a  sea  of  angry  faces. 

Suddenly  the  crowd  leaped  away  as  if  at  a  given  signal, 
howling  and  waving  their  trophies. 

The  dappled  grays  quivered. 

The  coachman,  who  had  been  very  red  in  the  face,  turned 
an  ugly  sickly  gray. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  looking  round.  "It  is  best  to  re- 
turn to  Fontenay.     Paris  is  not  safe  to-day." 

Terezia  looked  up  at  him  with  superb  scorn.  *'Do 
you  think  I  am  frightened  by  a  set  of  hooligans?     Drive 


on!" 


The  coachman  whipped  up  his  horses.  There  were 
many  faces  at  the  windows  of  the  tall  houses  lining  the 
narrow  street.  Nearly  everyone  glanced  at  Madame  de 
Fontenay's  splendid  carriage.  Here  and  there  a  shrill 
laugh  rang  out,  or  an  unmistakable  oath. 

A  burly  tradesman,  who  had  once  sold  Terezia  a  pair  of 
silk  stockings,  and  never  forgotten  the  fact  or  the  beauty 
of  his  customer,  ran  out  of  his  shop  door,  after  her  car- 
riage. 


REVOLUTION  55 

"Madame !"  he  called.     "Madame !'» 

Terezia,  recognizing  the  fellow,  waved  her  hand  and 
smiled. 

"Bonjour,  David,"  she  called.     "What  a  lovely  day." 

She  was  for  passing  on,  but  the  hosier  laid  a  detaining 
hand  on  the  low  carriage  door  and  the  coachman  pulled  up 
at  once.      (It  gave  him  great  pleasure  to  do  so.) 

"Have  you  not  heard  the  news,  madame  la  marquise?" 
panted  the  man.  "There  were  riots  last  night.  Lamoig- 
non  burned  in  effigy  in  the  Place  du  Dauphin — for  eighteen 
hours  the  people  shouted  and  danced.  Blood  was  shed  to 
the  accompaniment  of  fireworks.  M.  Necker's  portrait 
was  publicly  insulted.     May  I  advise  you,  madame " 

Terezia  shook  her  head  gently. 

"They  ought  to  be  punished,"  she  said.  "What  are  the 
police  thinking  of?  Thank  you  so  much  for  telling  me. 
.  .  .  Drive  on,  Baptiste." 

Baptiste  galloped  his  horses  down  the  empty  street 
towards  the  Pont  Ncuf.  By  some  miracle  the  angry 
crowds  had  dispersed.  The  hosier  (good  man)  returned 
to  his  quaint  little  shop,  cursing  the  folly  of  women. 

On  the  famous  bridge  facing  the  equestrian  statue  of 
Henry  IV.,  Terezia  found  herself  in  fresh  difficulties.  Her 
horses  were  peremptorily  held  up  by  a  score  or  so  of  dirty 
hands.  A  score  or  so  of  dirty  faces  hemmed  her  dainty 
freshness.  One  man  had  the  audacity  to  poke  his  ragged 
head  under  the  hood  of  the  carriage  and  to  lay  an  in- 
describably dirty  hand  on  madame's  dainty  shoulder. 

"Madame  is  pleased  to  descend,"  he  said.  "Citizens, 
shall  this  pearl  escape  penance?" 

"No !"  roared  the  excited  crowd.  The  women  hedged 
close.  A  child  howled  and  was  not  reprimanded.  No  one 
heard  its  shrill  screams. 

Terezia  was  hustled  from  her  pretty  carriage,  far  more 
annoyed  than  frightened,  and  conducted  by  the  hooting, 
shouting,  dancing  mob,  opposite  a  huge  figure  made  of 
straw,  surmounted  by  a  grinning  mask  and  a  black  wig. 
Before  this  ungainly  effigy  she  was  told  to  kneel,  to  fold  her 


5Q  TORCHLIGHT 

hands,  to  back  away  and  curtsy  three  times.  The  rules  and 
regulations  of  the  ceremony  were  very  strict.  Terezia, 
deeming  resistance  unpolitic  and  meaningless,  did  as  she 
was  told,  and  with  such  charming  grace  that  even  that 
graceless  crowd  of  long-suffering  humanity  ceased  to  howl 
and  continued  to  stare.  Was  the  lady  actually  of  their 
own  flesh  and  blood? 

A  young  girl,  attenuated  by  want  and  suffering,  stealth- 
ily drew  near  and  slipped  eager  fingers  across  the  blue 
freshness  of  Terezia's  sash.  She  had  never  in  all  her 
life  touched  silk.   .  .  . 

In    her    cool    drawing-room,    behind    carefully-closed 
blinds,   Claire   sat   reading,   awaiting   the  arrival   of  her 
friend. 

Claire  was  absorbed  in  the  romance  of  Paid  et  Virgime^ 
by  Saint-Pierre.  The  book  had  been  very  well  received. 
Claire  loved  it  and  frequently  wept  over  the  pathetic  pas- 
sages ...  at  times  she  would  lay  down  the  book  and  pic- 
ture herself  and  her  cousin  in  one  or  other  of  the  poignant 
situations.  For  reasons  which  have  nothing  to  do  with 
this  history,  Claire  was  still  in  love  and  still  unmarried. 
M.  le  cousin  had  business  abroad,  and  his  frequent  love- 
letters  were  Claire's  chief  solace  in  life.  One  day  .  .  .  no, 
we  will  not  allow  ourselves  to  pry  into  a  young  girl's  day- 
dreams, except  to  tell  you  that  they  were  altogether  rosy 
and  altogether  doomed  to  disappointment.  Even  in  ro- 
mances, such  as  Saint-Pierre's  mastei-piece.  Fate  hovers 
dim,  unrecognizable,  a  secret  agent — and  how  much  more 
so  in  the  inexorable  scheme  of  existence.^ 

Poor  little  tender  Claire,  who  this  afternoon  was  weav- 
ing yet  another  thread  into  her  tapestry  of  dreams,  how 
very  little  she  understood  the  beginning  of  the  end!  In 
fact,  when  old  Tourozel,  the  family  retainer,  had  retailed 
with  emphasis  the  business  of  these  last  days,  and  had  ex- 
plained the  nature  of  the  explosive  (human)  material 
huddled  in  the  damp  nether  dens   of  Paris — smoldering 


REVOLUTION  57 

and  catching  heat  by  very  physical  contact — she  had  only 
sighed  and  had  finished  her  dinner  with  a  good  appetite. 

She  was   one  of  the  many. 

So  few  of  us  see  the  crack  in  the  wall,  but  we  all  feel 
its  collapse.  .  ,  . 

Claire  did  not  look  an  hour  older  or  an  hour  wiser  than 
when  we  last  met  her  at  Marie- Antoinette's  dinner-party. 
She  still  believed  in  her  dear  Terezia,  and  considered  her  a 
much-maligned  and  injured  young  woman.  She  could  not 
look  at  Devin  de  Fontenay,  the  actual  cause  of  so  much 
misery,  without  shivering.  Oh,  why  had  dear  Terezia 
married  him?  She  would  have  been  so  happy  with  ,  .  . 
even  Claire,  faithful  little  Claire,  found  it  difficult  to  name 
the  gentleman.  Anyone  would  have  been  preferable  to  a 
bully,  a  man  of  furious  jealousy  and  low  suspicions.  Un- 
consciously Claire  repeated  Terezia's  indictment.  Dear 
Terezia  had  during  the  last  year  used  up  a  vocabulary  of 
poignant  language  to  express,  all  too  inadequately,  the 
woes  of  married  life. 

Claire  would  sigh  and  soothe  and  sympathize  on  every 
occasion  where  her  sympathy  was  demanded,  and  often 
acted  as  an  unconscious  intermediary  in  restoring  her  dear 
friend's  shattered  nerves.  She  realized  that  her  own  deep 
compassion  couldn't  always  meet  the  case.  There  were 
other  friends  who  had  a  right  to  administer  comfort  to  the 
disillusioned  bride.  "Men  were  much  kinder  than  women,'* 
Terezia  would  remark,  "always  with  the  exception  of  her 
incomparable  Claire."  And  Claire  never  contradicted 
anyone   willingly. 

Presently  Terezia  burst  into  the  cool  drawing-room,  a 
very  whirlwind  of  excitement.  She  flung  herself  into  the 
arms  of  her  friend. 

*'I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.     My  dear!    My  dear!" 

*'What  has  happened?" 

*'I  have  been  nearly  killed." 

"T^r^zia !" 

"Or  at  least  trampled  on  and  insulted.  Do  look  at  my 
shoulder,  I  believe  it  is  bruised.     It  is  aching  horribly." 


58  TORCHLIGHT 

"Never  tell  me  Devin  has  dared  to  touch  you  !'* 

"No,  no.  That  is  another  story.  Darling,  I  have 
once  and  for  always  silenced  M.  de  Fontenay.  Aren't  you 
sorry  for  me.?"  Terezia  sank  into  a  convenient  chair. 
"I  was  too  clever  to  move  as  much  as  an  eyelash.  I  paid 
no  regard  to  my  dress.  I  knelt  on  the  hard  stones,  sur- 
rounded by  a  gaping  crowd.  Bah ! — how  they  smelled ! 
Darling,  I  am  hot !  Lebrun  will  be  in  despair.  She  is 
just  at  the  complexion,  and  no  imagination  can  do  justice 
to  my  skin.  I  must  get  cool."  Terezia  unloosened  the 
strings  of  her  garlanded  hat. 

Claire  handed  Terezia  a  charming  fan,  hand-painted  on 
parchment. 

"I  don't  understand,'*  she  said.  "Have  you  had  an 
accident .?" 

"An  accident,"  she  murmured.  "She  calls  it  an  acci- 
dent!    Have  you  been  out  to-day.?" 

"No." 

"Nor  yesterday?" 

"Yesterday  I  was  helping  in  the  still-room.  Marie  is 
ill " 

Terezia  waved  her  hand.  "Precious,  what  is  the  good  of 
living  in  Paris?     There  is  a  riot  in  the  town." 

"That  is  very  true,  I  remember.  Tourozel  was  speak- 
ing yesterday  of  unseemly  rabbles  who  parade  the  streets 
and  who  shout  for  no  reason  at  all.     It  is  very  sad." 

"Sad?  It  is  shocking!  One  can't  drive  in  one's  own 
carriage  without  being  molested  by  unspeakable  ruffians. 
Why  doesn't   the   king   act?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"The  government  is  to  blame.  The  watch  are  hustled 
and  flouted  by  lawless  demons !  Why  don't  they  fill  up  the 
Bastille?  A  great  big  place  like  that  going  to  waste !  If 
I  were  a  man  I'd  soon  restore  order." 

"I  wish  sometliing  could  be  done,"  said  Claire,  kissing 
her  friend. 

Presently  Terezia  changed  the  conversation.  She  was 
iiot  really  interested  in  politics,  and  she  was  annoyed  with 


REVOLUTIOlSr  59 

her  majesty,  who  hadn't  given  her  an  appointment  at 
court.  Her  majesty  was  apparently  deeply  engrossed  in 
domestic  aifairs.  Public  festivities  and  state  entertain- 
ments were  rare  in  Paris  in  1788.  Everyone  kept  quiet, 
except  tlie  rabble — and  Mirabeau.  Mirabeau  was  scream- 
ing himself  hoarse.  It  was  altogether  a  baffling,  odious 
situation.  If  Calonne  hadn't  squandered  the  national 
funds  nothing  unpleasant  would  have  occurred.  .  .  . 
Calonne  was  an  infamous  rascal. 

(A  very  little  while  ago  Calonne  had  stood  at  the  smn- 
mit  of  his  popularity.     How  shifty  is  the  wind  of  favor.) 

The  young  girls  lunched  alone.  Just  as  they  were  rising 
from  the  table  in  walked  M.  de  Ravoral, 

"Am  I  late?"  he  said.  "What  exquisite  vision  do  I  see? 
Madame  de  Fontenay,  more  lovely  than  ever.  How  is  the 
baby?" 

"As  well  as  ever,"  laughed  Terezia. 

*'And  you  yourself?     One  need  not  ask.'* 

"I  have  been  in  Hades  for  one  week." 

"Taiit  mieux.  To-day  you  can  appreciate  heaven  the 
better.     Pain  and  pleasure  are  built  on  contrasts." 

"Allow  me  to  oifer  you  some  breakfast,  monsieur,"  said 
Claire. 

"I  have  feasted  enough,"  said  the  gallant  Ravoral, 
bowing  his  ludicrously  bald  head  to  both  the  ladies. 

Terezia  knelt  on  a  chair — her  elbow  on  the  table. 

"You  are  original,  madame,"  said  de  Ravoral,  apprising 
her  attitude. 

Terezia  floated  to  her  feet  (no  other  word  signifies  the 
grace  of  her  movement). 

"No,  only  uncomfortable.  I  have  had  an  adventure 
to-day.     The  people  stopped  my  carriage.     Imagine !" 

"You  ought  not  to  drive  alone.  Surely  one  of  your 
many  admirers " 

"Legions,  monsieur,  and  never  one  to  hand  when  he  is 
wanted.     It  is  a  melancholy  fact." 

"And  incredible.  What  are  you  ladies  doing  this  after- 
noon? if  I  may  be  so  indiscreet  as  to  ask." 


60  TORCHLIGHT 

Terezia  clapped  her  hands. 

"Come  with  us.  I  have  an  appointment  at  Madame 
Lebrun's  studio  at  three  o'clock.  I  would  value  your 
opinion  on  my  portrait." 

Count  Ravoral  knitted  his  brows  in  thought.  (He 
always  did  that  when  he  had  arrived  at  a  definite  con- 
clusion.) 

"As  it  happens,  I  am  bound  to  see  my  publisher.  It 
seems  I  write  a  difficult  hand,  and  invention  is  ever  the 
easiest  course  out  of  a  difficulty." 

*'Yes,  monsieur,"  said  Claire,  without  knowing  in  the 
least  what  Ravoral  was  talking  about,  as  he  absently  de- 
voured a  crisp  roll.  She  spoke  to  fill  up  a  pause,  and 
while  the  wrinkles  were  clearing  on  Ravoral's  domed  fore- 
head. 

"I  have  it.  If  you  will  allow  me,  mademoiselle,  I  will 
write  a  note  to  Panchouche  and  ask  him  to  send  my  proofs 
to  Madame  Lebrun's  studio.  While  the  lady  is  immortal- 
izing her  just  fame,  and  the  most  famous  face  of  the  cen- 
tury, I  can  run  through  my  copy.  Only  flagrant  mistakes 
matter  when  it  comes  to  print.  The  public  are  of  all 
bodies  the  most  long-suffering." 

"Maybe,"  said  Terezia.  "But  at  times  they  are  in- 
sufferably trying.  Can  you  understand  the  temper  of  the 
people?     Are  they  mad.'"' 

"Sanity  and  madness  are  so  closely  allied,  it  would  tax  a 
stronger  brain  than  mine  to  define  their  exact  gravity.  I 
would  not,  madame,  swear  to  anything." 

"Yet  you  look  prodigiously  grave.  Do  you  think  they 
are  likely  to  chop  our  heads  off.'' — these  barbarous  sav- 
ages !"     Terezia  laughed  at  her  own  wit. 

"Who  knows  ?  I  am,  madame,  believe  me,  absolutely  in 
the  dark  as  to  the  people's  intention." 

"What  does  his  majesty  say  about  the  situation?"  asked 
Claire,  lifting  her  beautiful  dark  eyes  to  Ravoral's  bald 
ugliness. 

"Nothing,  mademoiselle,  as  might  be  expected." 

*'They  tell  me  the  queen  is  looking  pale,"  said  Terezia 


REVOLUTION  61 

(she  liked  airing  her  intimacy  at  court,  and  made  much  of 
the  confidences  of  a  ci-devant  lady-in-waiting — now  too 
corpulent  to  do  much  else  than  talk). 

"Poor  lady;  I  have  it  in  my  heart  to  pity  her  majesty," 
said  de  Ravoral,  solemnly. 

"Oh!"  said  Terezia,  genuinely  surprised.  "How  can 
you  pity  a  queen!  Such  a  delightful  position.  I'd  love 
to  be  a  queen." 

"The  uncrowned  queens   are   often   of  greater   signifi- 


cance." 


"I  thank  you,  monsieur."     (Terezia  tossed  her  head.) 
*'I  have  never  envied  a  Dubarry." 

"True,  madame,  she  lacks  intelligence.  No,  she  is  not  to 
be  envied." 

*'A  real  queen " 

"Is  sometimes  a  real  woman " 

Claire  sighed.  "Her  majesty  is  so  beautiful  and  digni- 
fied  " 

"And  proud.     Yes,  mademoiselle." 

Ravoral  brushed  the  crumbs  from  his  fancy  waistcoat 
(skin-tight).  "I  am  satisfied  that  the  strongest  man  will 
win.  Far  worse  than  the  queen's  pride  is  the  latest  report 
on  Mirabeau's  health." 

"Hateful  man,"  said  Terezia,  who  remembered  a  feather- 
weight slight. 

"His  health  is  dangerously  impaired  and  yet  he  never 
spares  himself.  He  has  the  energy  of  ten  men,  and  the 
strength  of  your  baby,  madame." 

"Really?" 

"Mirabeau  is  an  astonishing  product  of  the  times.  The 
pity  is  he  over-exerts  himself.  He  is  the  one  man  in 
France  who  might  modify  her  destiny." 

"I  thought  you  disliked  him." 

"Intensely.  But  I  also  admire  him.  I  always  respect  a 
clever  man  who  takes  himself  seriously." 

"I   don't   see   his   cleverness." 

*'You  wouldn't,  madame," 

"You  mean  my  opinion  is  of  no  consequence.'*     You 


&2  TORCHLIGHT 

are  astonishingly  polite,  monsieur."  Terezia's  blue  eyes 
gKttered  dangerously.  She  could  suffer  a  million  com- 
pliments, but  the  faintest  disparagement  of  her  abilities 
always  made  her  mad. 

Ravoral  smiled  as  engagingly  as  he  could  with  his  loose- 
set  lips.  "I  am  afraid  Mirabeau  would  underrate  you. 
But  then,  of  course,  he  is  a  monster.  Allow  me,  ma- 
dame "     He  offered  Terezia  liis  arm,  and  conducted 

her  into  the  salon. 

On  their  way  he  managed  to  restore  sunsliine.  How? 
What  he  whispered  in  her  ear  must  remain  a  secret. 

"My  friend ■"  began  Terezia,  touched  to  the  heart. 

She  paused  on  the  threshold  of  the  Cardilacs'  stiff  salon 
and  left  her  sentence  unfinished.  With  a  little  cry  she  ran 
across  the  room. 

"Georges,"  she  said.     "Georges,  am  I  dreaming!" 

Georges  de  Boisgaloup  was  standing  in  the  embrasure  of 
the  window.  He  had  no  idea  he  would  med;  Madame  de 
Fontenay  in  Paris.  He  had  come  to  say  goodby  to 
Claire,  before  joining  his  regiment,  at  Valence,  on  his 
appointment  as  an  officer  of  artillery. 


CHAPTER   IX 

GEORGES  came  forward  and  bowed  with  ceremonious 
politeness  to  the  ladies.  Terezia,  recollecting  her 
manners,  swept  him  a  deep  curtsy.  M.  Jlavoral  rubbed 
his  bald  pate.  He  was  trying  to  cemember  ...  in  two 
seconds  he  had  remembered — he  smiled,  and  very  adroitly 
he  asked  Mademoiselle  Claire  to  have  the  goodness  of 
heart  to  show  him  where  he  could  pen  his  note  to  Pan- 
chouche.  Mademoiselle  asked  monsieur  to  have  the  kind- 
ness to  follow  her  into  the  library. 

Terezia  quite  forgot  to  signal  to  her  friend.  When  she 
wanted  an  audience  of  a  private  nature,  she  had  to  make  it 
very  clear  to  dear  Claire  that  she  needn't  hurry  back  and 
disturb  her.  Nor  admit  anyone  else.  She  remembered 
nothing  but  that  she  hadn't  seen  Georges  for  nearly  two 
years  ...  an  eternity! 

Ravoral  acted  very  kindly  by  Terezia.  In  M.  Cardilac's 
comfortable  library  he  detained  Claire.  He  begged  her  to 
transmit  to  her  father  a  message  of  a  private  character. 
He  had  not  been  looking  well,  M.  de  Cardilac.  They 
talked  of  dear  papa's  health  for  quite  a  reasonable  time. 
And  then,  adroitly,  Ravoral  turned  the  conversation  on 
the  amazing  merits  of  that  young  diplomat — M.  le  cousin. 
This  occupied  quite  half  an  hour.  And  the  winged  min- 
utes flew  for  Claire.  .  .  . 

As  to  the  pair  in  the  drawing-room,  they  were  both  a 
prey  to  emotion.  Georges  had  done  his  best,  by  intense 
application  to  his  studies,  to  forget  Terezia.  (A  method 
which  on  occasions  sharpens  memory.) 

She  was  more  lovely  than  he  had  supposed  imaginable, 
more  seductive,  more  humble,  more  loving,  more  contrite, 
more  despairing.  ... 

63 


64  TORCHLIGHT 

What  could  he  do  but  hold  her  in  his  arms,  promise 
eternal  devotion,  and  kiss  her  passionately  ? 

Terezia's  whole  demeanor  pointed  to  this  natural  solu- 
tion of  callous  resolves.     Georges  clean  forgot  his  prom- 
ise to  Napoleon  Bonaparte.     He  clean  forgot  that  he  had 
sworn  to  forget  a  woman,  worthless  enough  to  throw  him 
over  in  favor  of  "a  despicable  little  wretch." 
^      All  Georges'  sense  of  chivalry  rose  at  sight  of  Terezia's 
^distress  .  .   .  she  did  not  say  very  much — she  continually 
broke  off  her  pathetic  confidences  to  ask  if  Georges  still 
loved  her-f^     Georges  wrapped  his  arms  around  her  and 
kissed  her  mouth.    His  arms  were  as  steel — he  was  tall  and 
manly  and  altogether  improved.     She  loved  Georges  with 
all  her  broken  heart.     He  loved  to  hear  her  soft  voice, 
but  above  all  he  loved  to  feel  her  beating  heart  respond 
ijto  his  own,  and  the  warm  loveliness  of  her  incomparable 
[fielf. 

1  "How  handsome  you  are,"  said  Terezia.  "Why  was  I 
such  a  weak  woman?     I  had  to  give  in.  .  .  ." 

*'Are  you  happy,   Terezia?     Moderately   happy?" 

Terezia  kissed  his  sensitive  mouth.  "You  dear,  silly  boy, 
"who  can  be  moderately  happy?"  she  asked,  with  wet  eyes 
and  trembling  lips. 

*'You  have  your  child,  madame.  I  heard  of  his  birth. 
May  he  console  you." 

"He  never  will,"  said  Terezia,  with  honest  conviction. 
She  shuddered.  "Don't  speak  of  him !  He  reminds  me  of 
all  kinds  of  horrible  situations.  God !  Do  you  realize 
what  it  means  to  be  in  the  power  of  a  man  you  detest?" 

"My  darling!" 

"You  always  were  so  sympathetic.  '  Do  you  remem- 
ber .  .  ." 

[  (They  remembered  many  things  during  the  next  half- 
hour.  They  lost  count  of  time.  They  were  intensely 
miserable,  intensely  happy.) 

"Tell  me  about  your  plans,"  said  Terezia  presently. 

*'I  am  joining  my  regiment  at  Valence.  It  is  a  trouble- 
Some  quarter,  and  we  may  see  fighting." 


REVOLUTION  65 

"Oh !"  moaned  Terezla,  and  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes 
as  if  to  shut  out  a  painful  vision.  "I  hate  the  idea  of  you 
fighting.  Think  if  you  were  killed!  Do  you  know  what 
I  would  do  the  instant  I  heard  such  terrible  tidings?  I 
would  commit  suicide."  She  nodded  her  head  and  disclosed 
a  pair  of  beautiful  and  very  calm  eyes.     "Indeed  I  would." 

*'Terezia,  you  must  not  talk  so  wickedly." 

*'I  feel  wicked.  I  want  you,  Georges,  and  no  one  else. 
I  will  come  to  Valence — will  you  have  your  little  Terezia? 
...  I  will  cook  for  you  and  work  for  you  and  look  after 
our  little  home.  A  sub-lieutenant  cannot  afford  a  man- 
sion.    Am  I  not  wise?" 

"You  are  adorable." 

"Do  you  mean  it,  Georges?" 

"With  all  my  heart  and  soul." 

"How  I  love  you !" 

"Darling." 

Somewhere  about  here  Terezia  heard  the  approach  of  M. 
de  Ravoral  and  dear  Claire.  M.  de  Ravoral  was  talking 
very  loudly. 

Terezia  put  up  her  hands  and  adjusted  her  "adorable 
hat."  (She  had  got  to  the  stage  when  she  didn't  care  if 
it  was  adorable  or  not.)  She  wanted  to  look  tidy  and 
discreet.  She  moved  away  from  Boisgaloup  and  seated 
herself  at  a  table  and  commenced  turning  over  an  album 
.of  verses. 

"Have  you  friends  in  Valence?"  she  asked  in  a  smooth, 
"company"  voice. 

"No,  madame." 

"That  is  sad." 

"I  shall  have  to  depend  on  the  society  of  my  brother 
officer,  Bonaparte — we  have  joined  the  same  regiment." 

"Wasn't  he  the  studious,  disagreeable  young  man?" 

"Very  studious.  I  don't  find  him  disagreeable.  We 
have  the  same  interests." 

"Par  exemple?" 

"We  talk  over  the  future  and  pore  over  maps.  Bona- 
parte is  never  tired  of  studying  the  map  of  Europe.     He 


m  TORCHLIGHT 

is  a  queer  fellow,  but  interesting.  "When  he  talks  no  dream 
seems  too  ambitious." 

"Quite  a  superior  young  man.  .  .  .  There  you  are,  dear 
Claire,  I  and  M.  de  Boisgaloup  have  just  been  wondering 
where  you  were." 

M.  de  Ravoral  expressed  great  remorse  at  his  selfishness 
in  detaining  mademoiselle. 

Terezia  generously  forgave  him. 


CHAPTER   X 

"TT  is  nearly  three  o'clock,"  said  Claire.  "And  you 
know,  Terezia,  how  cross  Madame  Lebrun  gets  if 
you  keep  her  waiting." 

"True,  very  true.  Is  the  carriage  there.''  Monsieur 
Boisgaloup,  have  the  kindness  to  look  out  on  the  court- 
yard— the  window  is  just  outside,  in  the  passage." 

"Certainly,  madame." 

"It  seems  inide  to  leave  him  behind,"  said  Claire,  as  soon 
as  the  young  man  had  left  the  room. 

"Darling,  we'll  take  him  with  us,"  cried  Terezia  tri- 
umphantly. "Madame  Lebrun  never  minds  company ;  the 
more  the  better,  she  says.     Artists  are  so  generous." 

"Sensible  creatures,"  chimed  Ravoral. 

Georges  returned  and  announced  that  M.  de  Cardilac's 
carriage  was  waiting  the  convenience  of  the  ladies. 

Claire  explained — with  some  trepidation — that  circum- 
stances prevented  her  staying  at  home  and  entertaining 
her  guest.     She  expressed  her  regret  very  prettily. 

Georges  bowed  and  said  that  he  was  also  very  sorry,  and 
hoped  that  the  next  time  he  called  on  Mile,  de  Cardilac  he 
would  be  more  fortunate. 

Terezia  buttoned  her  glove  and,  without  glancing  up, 
suggested  to  Claire  that  monsieur — if  he  had  nothing  bet- 
ter to  do — would  be  welcome  m  Madame  Lebrun's  studio. 
"She  is  such  an  interesting  woman,"  said  the  marcliioness. 

Georges  had  heard  of  the  lady's  reputation.  He  re- 
gretted extremely  that  he  couldn't  avail  himself  of  the 
pleasure  of  accompanying  the  ladies. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Terezia,  raising  her  heavenly  eyes  to 
the  ceiling  with  an  expression  to  match  her  gentle  query. 

*'My  mother  expects  me,"  said  Georges. 

"Ah!"  said  Terezia.     She  quickly  looked  down  again 

67 


68  TORCHLIGHT 

at  her  immaculate  gloves.  ("The  old  vixen!"  she 
thought.) 

"Monsieur,"  said  Ravoral,  twirling  his  cane,  "filial 
affection  is  beautiful  to  behold." 

"Monsieur  Boisgaloup  has  always  been  a  pattern  son," 
explained  Terezia,  coldly. 

"You  flatter  me,"  said  Georges.  "I  leave  Paris  to- 
morrow." 

Terezia  looked  up  hurriedly  and  met  Ravoral's  keen 
glance.  She  did  not  care  a  sou  what  he  thought  of  her! 
Georges  must  not  leave  Paris  without  seeing  her  again. 
He  mustn't! 

*'We  cannot  spare  you,"  she  said  lightly.  "Why,  I 
have  a  thousand  things  to  tell  you."  She  turned  to  Rav- 
oral. "Monsieur  Boisgaloup  and  I  are  old  friends.  When 
we  first  came  to  Paris — four  years  ago — my  mother  and 
I  stayed  with  Madame  Boisgaloup.     She  was  so  kind." 

"Indeed?"  said  Ravoral.  "Now  you  mention  it  I  re- 
member the  fact  quite  well.  I  have  the  honor  of  Madame 
Boisgaloup's  acquaintance ;  a  charming  lady  of  unim- 
peachable virtue.     Maybe  a  trifle  too   strict " 

He  left  his  sentence  unfinished  as  Claire  entered  the 
room  with  her  hat  on  and  her  little  reticule  over  her  bare 
arm.  Claire  never  went  anywhere  without  her  bag.  She 
was  the  soul  of  neatness. 

Terezia  held  out  a  refractory  glove  to  Georges.  "But- 
ton it,"  she  commanded.  "Go  on,  dear  Claire.  It'll  save 
time.  I'll  follow  in  half  a  second.  Don't  wait  for  me,  M, 
de  Ravoral." 

With  a  sardonic  smile  Ravoral  followed  his  hostess. 
*'What  a  woman,"  he  said  emphatically. 

"Who?" 

"Pardon,  mademoiselle;   you." 

"I?" 

"Mademoiselle,  you  are  altogether  too  much  of  a  saint." 

Claire  smiled.     "Indeed,  sir,  I  am  not  very  strict." 

At  the  bend  of  the  staircase  old  Ravoral  looked  up.  "A 
quick  settlement  is  often  an  advantage,"  he  said.    He  had 


REVOLUTION  69 

caught  sight  of  Terezia's  fluttering  draperies,  and  the 
arched  beauty  of  her  foot.  Behind  her  came  Georges, 
carrying  her  fan,  and  looking  wonderfully  solemn. 

Terezia,  during  the  short  drive  to  the  studio  (which 
passed  without  any  untoward  incident),  was  decidedly 
sulky. 

The  old  gentleman,  on  the  little  seat  opposite  the  ladies, 
respected  their  silence.  Only  once  did  he  speak.  "A 
deuced  clever  woman,"  he  murmured  aloud. 

"Who?"  laughed  Claire.  "Ah,  monsieur,  restrain  your 
language." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  mademoiselle.  I  was  alluding  to 
our  mutual  friend,  the  widow  Boisgaloup." 

Terezia  tossed  her  head.  "She  is  as  cunning  as  a  fox," 
she  said.  "And  though  she  is  only  about  the  size  of  a 
doll,  she  rules  her  tall  son  completely." 

"Madame,"  said  Ravoral,  "let  us  hope  your  son  will  be 
brought  up  on  the  same  excellent  principles." 

"I  wouldn't  hamper  my  child  w^ith  a  code  of  morals 
utterly  out  of  date.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Claire,  I  de- 
spise a  henpecked  man." 

"Georges  is  so  splendid,"  said  Claire  enthusiastically. 

Terezia  didn't  answer. 

Ravoral  sucked  the  head  of  his  cane  (a  distressful 
habit  of  his)  and  chuckled. 

Terezia,  seated  on  the  dais  in  a  charming  attitude,  was 
the  cynosure  of  all  eyes.  M.  Ravoral  was  scanning  his 
proofs,  but  they  only  had  half  his  attention.  He  liked  to 
watch  Madame  Vigee  Lebrun  at  work — ^with  what  light- 
ning rapidity  she  wielded  her  brush — how  she  laughed 
and  chatted  and  smiled  and  frowned  and  disagreed  in  a 
wholly  agreeable  fashion. 

She  was  a  woman  of  fashion  and  an  artist  of  high  repute. 
She  could  command  her  own  price  and  choose  her  own 
patrons.     No  wonder  she  found  life  charming. 

Her  mouth  was  soft  and  humorous,  the  lips  red  enough. 
Her  brown  eyes  were  full  of  vivacity.     She  was  below 


70  TORCHLIGHT 

medium  height,  rather  inclined  to  plumpness.  She  gener- 
ally wore  a  turban  on  her  little  head,  a  gay-colored  liand- 
kerchief  which  half  concealed  her  russet-tinted  hair. 
Madame  Lebrun  was  rather  proud  of  her  curly  locks,  but 
she  was  by  no  means  a  vain  creature. 

For  an  hour  Terezia  had  kept  her  position,  and  now,  as 
the  soft-toned  grandfather  clock  chimed  a  quarter  past 
four,  the  artist  laid  down  her  brushes  and  stepped  back 
to  scan  her  canvas. 

"Don't  move,  madame,"  she  called  to  her  model.  "I 
want  an  unbiased  opinion  on  my  work.  Come  here,  young 
man,  and  tell  me  frankly  if  you  consider  it  successful.'* 

Terezia  smiled,  and  looked  kindly  at  Panchouche's  mes- 
senger. He  hadn't  been  five  minutes  in  the  studio,  but,  if 
she'd  known  him  a  lifetime,  she  couldn't  have  been  more 
sure  of  his  feelings.  She  didn't  like  men  who  considered  it 
necessary  to  hide  their  admiration  under  a  respectful 
glance.  She  appreciated  the  youth's  bold-eyed  approval 
of  her  charms.  Never  since  he  had  entered  the  room  had  he 
taken  his  eyes  off  her  face  for  a  moment.  Now  he  actually 
started,  as  if  struck,  at  Madame  Lebrun's  shai'p  command. 
He  sauntered  over  to  the  easel,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  Terezia  liked  his  audacity.  This  man  of  the 
people  looked  as  if  the  whole  world  belonged  to  him. 

He  was  a  tall,  dark  young  man,  loosely  strung  together, 
poorly  dressed  (poor  fellow!),  with  a  flashy  necktie,  and 
well  oiled  black  hair.  His  nose  was  ludicrously  long  (no, 
he  wasn't  handsome),  his  red  lips  were  thick  and  smooth, 
while  his  teeth  were  surprisingly  even.  In  the  presence  of 
his  betters  he  smiled,  perfectly  at  his  ease,  in  spite  of 
Ravoral's  angry  frown — e\4dently  he  looked  down  upon 
his  "superiors."  Here  was  a  type  essentially  modem,  a 
type  unknown  to  her,  full  of  mystery  and  charm.  .  .  . 
His  eyes?  No,  she  couldn't  describe  his  eyes — were  they 
black,  blue,  gray?  His  glance — as  he  looked  up  from  scru- 
tinizing the  picture  on  the  easel — was  thrilling.  Involun- 
tarily she  shivered,  and  lowered  her  eyes  before  his  immense 
stare  ,  •  .  Ah,  she  thought,  he  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  meet 


REVOLUTION  71 

inan  or  devil,  and  in  love  he'd  scale  superhuman  heights. 
The  men  of  her  class  lacked  primitive  strength — weaklings 
all.  She  paid  a  passing  thought  to  Devin,  a  con- 
temptuous, withering  thought,  quite  forgetting  that  he'd 
sprung  from  the  same  stock  as  "Tallien."  She'd  caught 
his  name  all  right.  Ravoral  had  condescendingly  ad- 
dressed the  young  man  by  name,  when  he  had  handed  him 
his  proofs.  "Thank  you,  Tallien,"  he'd  said.  His  tone 
had  sent  the  blood  surging  into  Tallien's  rather  pale 
cheeks  .  .  .  one  day  he'd  retaliate.  She  dimly  sensed  liis 
hatred  and  his  power.  Terezia  felt  comanced  that  she  had 
before  her — in  spite  of  his  deplorable  clothes  and  no  less 
deplorable  taste  in  neckties — a  coming  man  ...  he  would 
be  great  one  day ;  he  would  conmiand ;  he  would  make  other 
men  cringe  in  front  of  him  as  frightened  dogs.  She  closed 
her  eyes  in  ecstasy,  seeing  Tallien  with  the  whip  hand 
raised  in  action  .  .  .  he'd  never  hit  her — he'd  defend  her 
with  liis  own  blood,  if  necessary.  She  took  a  deep  breath 
and  shut  her  eyes  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  exhausted. 

"You  are  tired,"  said  Madame  Lebrun.  "I've  almost 
finished  for  to-day." 

"Give  me  five  minutes,"  murmured  Terezia,  "and  I  will 
be  at  your  disposal,  madame." 

Tallien  had  forgotten  the  portrait.  His  bold  eyes  re- 
mained fixed  on  Madame  de  Fontenay. 

Old  Ravoral,  liighly  amused,  nodded  his  bald  head. 
What  a  providential  bolt  from  the  blue,  sent  to  stanch 
her  wounded  vanity !  That  astute  gentleman  never  found 
any  trouble  in  piecing  two  and  two  together.  If  the  lovely 
Terezia  held  young  Georges'  heart,  the  widow,  his  mother, 
retained  his  fihal  obedience ;  as  a  lover  he  was  "impossible." 
The  lady's  palpable  annoyance  in  the  carriage  had  made 
this  very  clear.  A  boy  with  a  fierce  sense  of  honor 
wouldn't  suit  her  humor — as  if  all  the  promises  in  the 
world  didn't  fade  before  the  sublime  law  of  love !  .  .  .  He 
saw  her  point  of  \dew.     In  his  youth  he'd  always  taken  it. 

Tinith  to  tell,  the  bald-headed  gentleman  had  estimated 
^e  situation  to  a  nicety.    Never  in  all  her  life  had  Terezia 


72  TORCHLIGHT 

felt  so  insulted.  Never  had  Georges  felt  so  miserable. 
Wrath  had  sat  on  her  brow  and  imperiled  virtue.  Georges, 
at  the  poignant  moment  of  separation — which  he  could 
have  put  off,  if  he'd  wanted  to — had  never  found  her  so 
lovely,  so  desirable.     "Listen,  darling,"  he'd  said — "when. 

I  come  back "     "No,  thank  you — she'd  no  use  for  a 

devout  lover  who  was  also  a  devoted  son.'*  On  the  full 
tide  of  her  wounded  dignity  she'd  sailed  out  of  his  life — in 
the  wake  of  old  Ravoral  (full  of  curiosity)  and  that  guile- 
less Claire — who  never  saw  anything.  She'd  walked  down 
the  stairs,  not  vouchsafing  the  miserable  Georges  another 
glance  or  word.  .  .  .  No  wonder  the  darling  was  glad  of 
a  new  distraction  to  modify  her  "cruel  disappointment." 

"I  am  impatient,  sir,  to  hear  your  approval  or  your 
condemnation,"  called  the  goddess  from  the  throne,  clasp- 
ing her  beautiful  arms  round  her  knees,  and  opening  her 
shining  eyes  upon  Tallien,  full  of  astonishing  vitahty  and 
condescension. 

Old  Ravoral  with  one  bleared  eye  enjoyed  the  comedy 
highly.     Sot  to  voce  he  repeated  his  conmient — "what  a 


woman !" 


Little  Claire  did  not  understand  anything  at  all. 
Madame  Lebrun  considered  that  Madame  Fontenay 
showered  distinguished  consideration  on  an  unknown, 
frankly  plebeian  young  man,  who  conducted  himself  with 
amusing  ostentation.  If  she  knew  anything  of  human 
nature,  young  Tallien  would  not  long  remain  an  obscure 
printer's  devil.  He  said  as  much  himself.  On  the  slight- 
est encouragement  this  youth  of  twenty-four  would  will- 
ingly have  detailed  to  the  company  his  life's  history  .  .  . 
it  was  a  comical  situation. 

Ravoral  encouraged  the  audacity  of  Panchouche's  mes- 
senger. At  every  pause  he  slipped  in  a  suggestion — he 
righted  as  it  were  the  little  boat  and  sent  it  down  the 
stream  again  —  the  stream  of  blatant  self-satisfaction. 
Any  other  "lackey"  in  his  position  would  have  trembled, 
blushed,  and  answered  the  ladies'  condescending  questions 
in  monosyllables.     Tallien  talked  like  a  book,  he  aired 


REVOLUTION  78 

his  knowledge,  he  gave  his  advise  (unasked),  he  had  the 
superb  eifrontery  to  criticize  M.  de  Ravoral's  spelling  and 
punctuation — he  even  suggested  an  amendment  in  the  text. 
Terezia  laughed.  Madame  Lebrun  laughed.  Claire  smiled. 
Ravoral,  repeatedly  nodded  his  billiard-ball  head.  Tallien, 
lounging  against  the  wall,  did  not  realize  the  nature  of  the 
sensation  he  was  creating. 

Terezia  gazed  delightedly  as  this  young  giant  in  trade, 
with  a  very  serious  air,  leaned  over  the  easel  holding  her 
unfinished  portrait.  He  looked  from  the  picture  to  the 
lady. 

"The  mouth  is  too  small,"  he  said.  "Why  diminish 
those  lips?  They  are  perfect  of  their  kind.  You  have 
got  the  expression  of  her  eyes  to  a  nicety,  madame.  I  like 
the  pose  of  the  head,  and  the  way  the  shoulders  set.  Here, 
with  advantage,  a  softening  touch  of  lace  would  break  the 
line  in  the  background.  On  the  whole  the  portrait  is  a 
work  of  art." 

Madame  Lebrun,  suffocating  with  ill-suppressed  laugh- 
ter, nodded  her  head.  "Thank  you,  good  sir.  I  am  much 
obliged.  You  have  given  me  some  invaluable  liints. 
Where,  if  I  may  ask,  have  you  studied  art?" 

"In  Paris  and  abroad."  He  looked  at  Terezia,  who  was; 
still  watching  liim  with  flattering  interest.  "I  have  always 
been  an  ardent  admirer  of  Spain  and  Spanish  artists.  In 
my  opinion,  Velasquez  stands  alone." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Madame  Lebrun,  sarcastically,  "you 
have  studied  under  him?  If  so,  you  have  been  fortunate  in 
your  master." 

Old  Ravoral  chuckled.     (She'd  caught  him  nicely.) 

Tallien  with  complete  unconsciousness  informed  Madame 
Lebrun  that  he  had  not  had  that  privilege.  He  was  only 
an  amateur.  He  regretted  that  his  parents  had  chosen  for 
him  an  uncongenial  career.  "It  is  no  pleasure  to  get 
scolded  for  another  man's  carelessness,"  said  he,  staring 
in  a  pointed  manner  at  our  author's  proofs. 

Ravoral  almost  collapsed  at  this  sally. 


74  TORCHLIGHT 

"You  will  get  on,  joung  man,  like  a  house  on  fire,"  he 
said. 

"When  the  fire  starts." 

"Eh!"  The  old  man  looked  up.  "You  have  talents 
behind  your  folly.     Don't  waste  them." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  am  storing  up  every  ounce  against 
an  emergency." 

"How  do  you  intend  to  win  your  fortune?"  asked 
Terezia,  very  slowly. 

He  looked  at  her  with  overpowering  admiration.  "Ah, 
madame,  if  I  knew  I  would  not  be  here.  We  are  all  play- 
tliings  of  chance.  I  can  bear  my  present  obscurity  by  just 
being  able  to  glimpse  my  future  greatness." 

Terezia  gave  the  young  man  a  ravishing  smile. 

"Do  enlighten  us,"  she  said.  "It  is  always  so  thrilling 
to  hear  a  declaration  of  faith." 

"There  is  gold  and  honor  and  fame  and  love  in  store  for 
me,  and  vengeance  on  those  who  have  hitherto  hindered 
my  ambition.     It  is  written." 

"How  very  interesting,"  drawled  Ravoral.  "Here,  my 
lucky  young  friend,  take  this  back  to  your  master  with  my 
compliments"  (he  handed  Tallien  his  proofs),  "and  tell 
him  he  has  the  very  devil  in  his  apprentice.  He  ought  to 
clap  such  a  dangerous  seer  into  prison,  or  marry  him  to 
his   daughter." 

"She  does  not  interest  me,"  said  Tallien  coldly,  drop- 
ping Ravoral's  proofs  on  the  floor. 

Madame  Lebrun  laughed  aloud.  "Don't  go !  Ask  him 
to  stay,  monsieur.  He  is  as  good  as  a  play.  I  have  been 
dying  of  enmd  all  the  morning." 

"Continue,"  said  Ravoral,  turning  his  back  on  Tallien's 
tall  figure. 

"If  monsieur  would  indicate  the  direction.''" 

"Wherever  your  invention  pleases,"  answered  Ravoral, 
without  looking  round. 

"I  have  never  invented  a  situation,  though  I've  told 
many  a  lie." 

"Here  is  a  promising  subject  for  the  charitable,"  said 


REVOLUTION  75 

Terezia  gaily.  "Monsieur  de  Ravoral,  don't  be  so  rude! 
Offer  this  prodigy  a  post  more  worthy  of  his  talents. 
Would  a  secretaryship  suit  you,  sir?" 

Tallien  met  her  glance  with  a  bold  stare. 

"That  depends  on  my  employer." 

"If  he  is  the  most  charming  man  in  Paris?" 

"I  would  be  jealous  of  him,  madame." 

"How  so?" 

"In  that  case  he  would  be  your  lover." 

"Oh!"  Terezia  gasped.  Tallien,  for  all  his  ugliness, 
pleased  her  enormously. 

He  took  a  step  forward,  trod  on  M.  de  Ravoral's  manu- 
script, and,  with  a  disdainful  gesture,  took  it  up  and 
dropped  it  into  his  pocket. 

And  he  kissed  the  goddess's  outstretched  hand. 

He  bowed  to  the  company  in  general.  "We  will  meet 
again,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  conferring  a  favor. 
In  another  minute  he  had  gone,  before  Ravoral  had  had 
time  to  realize  his  abominable  insolence,  banging  the  door 
after  him.  They  could  hear  him  whistling  down  the  stairs 
— one  of  the  anti-royalist  songs  of  the  day. 

"A  firebrand,"  murmured  Madame  Lebrun,  looking 
thoughtful.  "I  wouldn't  wonder  if  we  did  hear  of  him 
again.     What  do  you  say,  M.  de  Ravoral?" 

"Nothing." 

"Times  are  changing." 

Claire  sighed  and  looked  up,  sweetly.  *'There  were 
riots  last  night,"  she  said. 

Old  Ravoral  got  up  and  bowed  before  the  young  girl. 
"Take  my  advice,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "and  follow  M. 
le  cousin  abroad.  He'll  understand  and  forgive  your  indis- 
cretion." 

"I  swear  you  are  right,  sir,"  said  Madame  Lebnm. 
"Thank  God  I've  got  my  passports  in  order." 

"You  stand  apart,  madame.  How  seldom  do  we  find 
beauty  and  genius  combined.     Go,  go,  go,  all  who  can." 

"How  foolish,"  said  Terezia.  She  rose,  and  came  down 
from  the  dais,  looking  a  trifle  giddy.     "I  intend  to  stay. 


76  TORCHLIGHT 

There's  poor,  darling  Claire  blushing.  Fie,  sir,  to  wound 
her  tender  modesty." 

"It's  not  a  question  of  modesty,  it's  a  question  of  life, 
mesdames,"  said  the  artist.     "I  adore  life." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Terezia,  slowly. 

"Terezia!" 

*'Yes,  dear?" 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?  I  have  spoken  to  you 
twice,"  said  Claire,  affectionately  slipping  her  hand 
through  her  friend's  arm. 

"Of  love,"  said  Terezia.  She  drew  herself  up  to  her 
full  height. 

"Mes  compliments,  madame,"  said  Ravoral. 

Claire  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  as  she  tied  her 
bonnet-strings.     "Why,  what  has  happened?"  she  said. 

"It  isn't  a  laughing  matter,  sir.  And  love  is  out  of  the 
question,"  said  Lebmn.  "Kick  'em,  I  say!  We  are  too 
lenient." 

"Or  too  indolent " 

"The  king " 

Ravoral  bowed.  "As  a  figure-head  he's  played  out — ■ 
as  a  personality  he  never  existed. 

"I  have  always  been  loyal,  sir.' 

"Madame,  for  centuries  ray  family  have  tied  the  royal 
night-cap." 

"We  all  know  your  traditions,  sir— and  your  pride. 
Talk  to  the  queen.     Something  ought  to  be  done." 

"So  we've  said  for — centuries." 

"In  the  meanwhile " 

"The  queen  makes  butter,  and  the  king  turns  out  a  very 
pretty  key,  only  it'll  never  unlock  a  door.  We're  up 
against  fate,  madame,  and  several  generations  of  injustice. 
I  see  it,  if  not  as  clearly  as  our  friend  Mirabeau,  at  least 
sufficiently  plainly  to  advise  the  rich  to  leave  the  country 
to  the  poor.  They'll  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  it  for 
a  time"  (he  took  a  pinch  of  snuff) — "excuse  me,  madame 
— and  then  they'll  be  very  happy  to  be — beaten.     We 


5» 


REVOLUTION  77 

have  the  traditions,  madame.  I  look  upon  blood  as  in- 
vincible." 

Terezia  yawned.  "What  are  you  talking  about?"  she 
said.  "Monsieur,  I  never  take  any  interest  in  politics.  It 
must  have  been  a  game  invented  by  a  stupid  man." 

"It  seems  dreadful — if  it  is  true — that  the  people 
haven't  enough  to  eat,"  said  Claire.  "One  hears  the  most 
terrible  stories." 

"Mademoiselle,  I've  heard  worse  facts." 

"It  is  true,  then?"  said  Lebrun. 

"Only  too  true,  madame,  and  a  great  deal  besides." 

"You  believe " 

"Nothing  of  what  I  hear,  and  only  a  certain  part  of 
what  I  see.  Enough  to  make  my  hair,  if  I  had  any,  stand 
on  end." 

"As  I  said  before,  sir,  it  is  not  a  situation  to  be  glossed 
over  with  witticism.  I  hate  wits !  I've  had  to  do  with 
them  all  my  Hfe.  And  I  tell  you  frankly,  sir,  their  folly 
is   astounding." 

"When  I  gravely  counsel  mademoiselle,  noire  toute 
belle"  (he  bowed  to  Terezia — who  was  looking  at  her  por- 
trait), "and  you,  madame,  to  flee  this  distracted,  hell- 
ridden  France,  you  merely  laugh.  By  laughing  myself 
I  hope  to  encourage  your  gravity." 

"What  can  they  do,  after  all?"  said  Madame  Lebrun, 
looking  out  of  the  window.  "Look,  chcrie"  she  put  her 
arm  round  Claire's  supple  waist,  "there's  a  representative 
body  of  our — masters,  marching  across  the  square.  Have 
you  ever  seen  such  horrors?  There  are  women,  too — 
tattered,  blackened,  disheveled  women  .  .  .  and  little  chil- 
dren.    God  pity  them." 

She  closed  the  window.  "Don't  let's  look  at  them. 
Don't  let's  think  of  them."  She  curtsied  to  Terezia. 
"We  meet  to-night  at  the  opera,"  she  said. 

"It's  as  good  as  a  play,"  said  Ravoral. 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE  fall  of  the  Bastille  woke  the  queen  to  feverish 
activity.  She  had  been  dawdling  on  the  brink  of  a 
volcano.  Obviously  she  must  remove  herself  and  her  fam- 
ily (including  the  king)  to  a  position  of  safety. 

During  the  hot  nights  of  September,  1798,  she  felt  as  if 
air  was  denied  her.  She  awoke  choking.  She  would  throw 
out  her  arms  as  if  searching  for  support — hardly  knowing 
what  she  did — poor,  distraught  lady.  The  one  thing  cer- 
tain was  that  she'd  keep  her  fears  to  herself.  She  would 
rather  die  than  flicker  an  eyelid  or  yield  an  inch  in  face 
of  the  infuriated  populace.  Was  she  the  cause  of  their 
suffering,  their  hatred,  their  crimes?  She  mocked  the 
futility  of  so  paltry  a  lie.  She  had  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  government.  She  could  not  stem  the  tide  of  just 
complaints.  Good  God,  if  the  people  couldn't  get  bread, 
why  didn't  they  eat  cake? 

Maybe,  in  a  spirit  of  misplaced  levity,  she  had  used 
some  such  term,  when  the  dismal  situation  was  explained 
to  her  with  suave  loyalty.  .  .  .  She  might  have  done  so. 
How  her  words  were  brought  up  against  her !  She  had  to 
face  a  blank  wall  of  callous  indifference.  The  Royal 
house  of  France  no  longer  mattered  to  the  people  of 
France. 

In  secret  her  majesty  collected  her  jewels,  and  trifles 
of  sentimental  value.  She  was  for  ever  selecting,  discard- 
ing, and  reinstating  a  bauble.  There  was  much  talk  in 
the  immediate  royal  entourage.  A  noble  gentleman  of 
foreign  lineage,  to  wit  Count  Fersen,  was  seen  frequently 
in  the  queen's  society.  He  seemed  to  exercise  a  soothing 
influence  on  the  royal  lady.  In  all  that  hubbub  of  inac- 
curacy he  alone  exerted  a  sensible  authority.     He  was  a 

78 


REVOLUTION  79 

born  courtier  and  an  accredited  diplomat.  He  also  loved 
the  queen  with  devout  homage. 

She  listened  to  him — she  wavered — she  promised  "to 
look  into  matters."  If  necessity  called  for  action  the  king 
would  act,  she  said. 

Frail  promise!  And  yet  his  majesty  had  the  "best  in- 
tentions." His  rather  passive  heart  was  set  beating  at 
the  rapid  turn  of  affairs. 

He  would  seriously  consult  some  capable  man — say  M. 
de  Mirabeau.  M.  de  Mirabeau  was  far  too  much  taken  up 
with  the  vital  business  of  life  and  death  to  find  time  to 
listen  to  his  majesty's  eternal  platitudes.  Louis  favored 
the  idea  of  throwing  as  many  buns  as  possible  to  the  irate 
bear.  If  it  came  to  the  worst,  in  his  own  royal  person, 
with  all  the  paraphernalia  of  state  and  trappings  of  roy- 
alty, he'd  face  the  angry  populace  and  speak  to  his  people, 
as  man  to  man.  Surely,  in  face  of  such  unprecedented 
condescension  the  people  would  submit  to  necessity  and 
go  quietly  home  .f*  He  did  not  ask  for  more.  All  he  wanted 
was  peace. 

Count  Fersen  listened  attentively  to  his  majesty's  sug- 
gestions, bowed  profoundly,  and  by  his  humble  silence  gave 
the  troubled  king  to  understand  that  he  understood  his 
fatherly  goodwill  towards  his  stiff-necked  subjects. 

The  queen  continued  in  feverish  haste  arranging  her 
wardrobe,  packing  her  jewels  and  restricting,  to  strain- 
ing-point, her  court.  All  who  wished,  among  the  aris- 
tocracy of  France,  were  at  liberty  to  travel  abroad, 
pending  a  satisfactory  settlement  of  the  internal  troubles 
at  home. 

Only  a  few  availed  themselves  of  their  opportunity. 

Down  in  hot  Paris  the  ferment  remained  unabated,  and 
day  by  day,  night  by  night,  it  gained  in  vigor.  As  in  a 
foul  disease,  infection  spread  to  all  classes.  No  longer 
did  the  hooligan,  the  ragged  vendor  of  matches  and  boot- 
laces, stand  alone;  he  was  surrounded  by  "respectable" 
people,  deputies,  waremongers,  newsvendors,  little  clerks 
and  pretty   seamstresses.      Like   a  monster  snowball   the 


80  TORCHLIGHT 

crowd  grew.  Yelling  fishwives  elbowed  no  less  yelling 
laundresses.  Fat  old  men,  in  tawdry  nightcaps,  hugged 
the  arms  of  spruce  young  dandies — all  alike  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  fraternity  and  liberty. 

No  one  exactly  knew  what  all  the  hue  and  cry  was 
about.  Some  wanted  bread — honest  bread;  others  hun- 
gered for  indigestible  fame — and  all  suspected  each  other ; 
these  strenuous  young  men  marching  under  no  flag, 
preaching  dissension,  socialism,  revolution.  .  .  .  Suspicion 
hung  ripe  in  the  heated  air.  At  any  moment  the  storm 
might  burst.  What  were  the  people  waiting  for?  Shout- 
ing wasn't  good  enough.  Howling  wasn't  good  enough. 
Mirabeau,  dying  by  inches,  held  them  in  check.  It  was 
a  fine  time  for  the  advent  of  a  great  man.  France  held 
but  one  and  he  was  dying.  She  also  held  sedition  and 
murder,  and  ungovernable  hate. 

The  queen  wrote  again  to  her  father.  His  majesty  took 
his  time  in  answering  her  letters,  and  when  he  did  so,  used 
very  guarded  language.  It  was  all  rather  in  the  nature 
of  a  nightmare,  preposterously  improbable.  At  times  the 
queen  danced  gaily  with  her  little  children  in  the  pretty 
gardens  of  the  Trianon,  and  refused  to  believe  her  own 
ears.  All  was  false — ^false — false!  False  as  ugly,  wicked 
rumor!  There  wasn't  a  spice  of  danger  in  the  air.  Lis- 
ten— the  bees  were  murmuring; — see — the  butterflies  were 
reveling  in  the  golden  autumn  air.  .  .  .  The  next  year 
would  come,  a  splendid  year.  There'd  be  a  rich  harvest 
and  bread  enough  for  everybody.  Why  should  people 
starve?  It  was  entirely  against  the  king's  wish.  The 
king  loved  his  people.  She'd  show  herself  in  Paris.  She'd 
drive  about  the  streets  and  let  the  people  look  at  her. 
Surely  that  would  calm  them  ? — the  beasts ! 

She'd  caught  sight — through  the  heavy  spiked  railings 
of  her  pretty  rose-garden — her  private  garden — of  some 
dreadful  faces,  inhuman  faces,  watching  the  little  dauphin 
and  Princess  Elizabeth  playing  by  the  fish-pond.  The 
little  boy  was  fishing  with  a  little  gilt  rod,  and  his  sister 
was  sailing  a  little  green  boat  with  white  silk  sails. 


REVOLUTION  81 

The  queen  rose  from  her  garden  seat,  and  called  the 
children  indoors.  Safe  in  their  nurseries,  she  locked  the 
door  and  sat  down  by  the  window  and  wept. 

"Why  are  you  crying,  madame?"  asked  the  dauphin. 

*'I'm  not  crying,"  she  said.  And  she  raised  her  head 
and  laughed.  "Come  away,"  she  said.  "We'll  all  go  away 
together." 

"Where.?" 

**Anywhere,"  she  said  wildly. 

"And  papa?" 

"He'll  come  with  us.  And  Madame  Elizabeth  and  kind 
M.  de  Fersen.  Children,  we'll  travel  north  and  live  in  a 
big,  big  forest.     I'll  cook  the  food " 

"I'll  make  the  beds." 

"Yes,  darling." 

"I'll  fish  the  fish." 

*'Yes,  darling." 

*'Let's  start  at  once." 

The  queen  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  *'IVe  forgot- 
ten," she  said.     "I've  something  to  do." 

She  kissed  her  children,  went  into  her  own  rooms,  and 
began  feverishly  unpacking  a  box  she'd  packed  that 
morning. 

A  tragedy  is  never  so  acute  as  when  it  is  simple.  Poor, 
iiistraught  lady — your  worst  nightmare  was  not  one-half 
as  terrible  as  the  reality.  Remember,  she  left  her  children 
ahve.  She  followed  in  the  murdered  king's  footsteps,  and 
she  left  her  children  to  the  living  world.  A  racked,  mad 
world — with  a  little  home-made  god,  in  sky-blue  clothes, 
at  the  head  of  affairs.  She  knew  the  future  god  by  sight 
— Deputy  Robespierre  had  long  had  his  eye  on  her.  He 
was  antagonistic  to  Mirabeau.  He  had  his  own  adherents 
and  large  words,  terrible  words.  Even  as  a  little  deputy 
in  the  representative  chamber — called  together  by  the 
king's  clemency  (or  folly,  rather) — ^he  had  made  himself 
heard.  He  spoke  as  a  man,  they  said — as  a  devil,  we 
say,  with  an  apology  to  Satan.  At  his  very  first  sight 
of  the  queen  he'd  noticed  her  head.    He'd  looked  up  at  her 


82  TORCHLIGHT 

— and  smiled.  "She'll  be  pretty,  by  and  by,"  he  mur- 
mured sentimentally.  Young  Tallien — who'd  stepped  up 
— the  lower  these  hell-spawn  plunged  the  higher  they 
stepped — applauded  him.  "Capital,"  he  agreed — as  it 
were  reading  Deputy  Robespierre's  hidden  meaning.  His 
glance  wasn't  in  the  least  veiled.  The  queen  took  it 
grandly.  How  she  despised  these  fellows!  How  she  de- 
spised them !  She  never  feared  them,  never  once.  It  was 
Fate  she  warded  off — an  implacable,  cruel  fate,  which  had 
designated  her  (and  hers)  to  pay  off  in  person  a  very 
ancient  score  ...  it  had  to  be  .  .  .  there  is  never  an  end 
to  evil,  or  evil  blood.  Civilization,  education,  tradition — 
call  it  what  you  will — is  the  flimsiest  excuse  in  existence 
— for  excesses.  Fraternity,  equality,  liberty  likewise. 
When  order  runs  riot,  heaven  recedes.  Mirabeau  tried  to 
weather  the  storm.  He  was  caught  in  a  whirlwind  and 
died.  You  remember  his  state  interaient  and  all  the  fine 
things  said  about  liim?  A  kind  of  ghastly  humor  over 
the  affair.  Never  had  Robespierre  attended  a  funeral 
in  higher  spirits.  We  can  see  him,  fanning  his  face  with 
his  black-edged  pocket  handkerchief,  weeping  into  it  croc- 
odile tears.  "Glory,  glory,  glory  ..."  The  guns 
saluted  the  passing  of  a  hero  (and  a  man).  The  people 
cheered  not  the  dead  but  the  living. 

Away  m  Versailles,  the  queen  sat  in  her  garden ;  M.  de 
Fersen  at  her  feet,  reading  poetry.  Her  ladies  in  a  pretty 
group  in  the  background.  Her  children  on  two  little 
stools — one  nursing  a  doll  and  the  other  mending  a  kite. 
Down  the  long  avenue  walked  his  majesty,  with  his  head 
held  high.  His  majesty  had  no  time  for  poetry.  He  had 
just  saluted  the  queen's  hand — a  very  white  hand  against 
her  ample  robe  of  blue  brocade — and  walked  off,  engaged 
upon  the  ponderous  consideration  of  national  affairs  .  .  . 
his  majesty  was  perfectly  assured  of  its  just  issue.  He 
never — like  the  queen — dreaded  his  fate  ...  an  anointed 
king  has  a  very  solid  position  in  life.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER    XII 

TEREZIA  yawned. 
"You  can  speak  until  to-morrow  evening,"  she  said, 
crossly,  "but  you'll  never  convince  me  that  you  are  right. 
Why  should  the  time  be  ominous?  People  have  quarreled 
before  and  got  over  it.  I  am  very  well  read  in  history. 
My  poor  father  gave  me  an  excellent  education." 

"Did  he?"  said  Madame  de  Lameth,  quietly. 

Terezia  didn't  obsei-ve  the  skeptical  tone  of  her  voice, 
nor  the  slightly  incredulous  lifting  of  madame's  pretty 
eyebrows.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  Madame  de  Lameth 
despised  her  dear  friend  Madame  de  Fontenay,  not  on 
account  of  her  husband's  partialit}'^  in  that  quarter,  but 
because  she  knew  that  she  was  a  vain  and  insincere  woman. 
She  was  far  too  bright  herself  to  be  jealous  of  a  vulgar 
flirt,  who  adored  kissing,  and  who  loved  no  one  (the  little 
brunette  had  summed  up  the  character  of  the  beauty  to  a 
nicety)  but  herself.  She  couldn't  (and  she  didn't  try  to) 
convince  poor  deluded  Alexandre  that  she  was  right.  Te- 
rezia's  loveliness,  in  her  later  teens,  was  too  intoxicating 
to  leave  any  room  for  doubt  in  a  male  mind  as  to  her  per- 
fection ;  she  was,  according  to  her  many  admirers,  "alto- 
gether beautiful."  The  Madame  de  Lameths  could  only 
wring  their  hands  at  such  folly  and  keep  silence — if  they 
were  wise.  "Give  a  woman  a  long  enough  rope  and  she'll 
end  by  hanging  herself,"  is  a  valuable  maxim.  The  idea 
that  Terezia  was  bound  to  fall — sooner  or  later — into 
a  pit  of  her  own  digging,  consoled  the  ladies  who  possessed 
indifferent  features  and  volatile  husbands.  ^'A  face — a 
face,  what  is  in  a  face?"  they  asked. 

Terezia,  who  laughed  behind  their  backs — jealousy  is 
such  an  amusing  quality  in  your  friends — to  their  faces 

83 


84  TORCHLIGHT 

was  fond  of  airing  her  little  stock  of  brains,  which  she 
exaggerated  quite  fabulously.  Would  you  believe  it?  she 
considered  herself  quite  as  clever  as  she  was  beautiful. 
And,  as  a  set-off  to  her  natural  talents,  she  had  her 
^'splendid  education."  At  times  she'd  quite  impress  stran- 
gers by  the  magnitude  of  her  learning.  They'd  had  no 
idea  that  Spanish  young  ladies  were  so  strictly  brought 
up.  They'd  always  imagined  they  were  allowed  a  certain 
indolent  freedom,  more  attention  being  paid  to  their  de- 
portment and  dancing  than  to  their  spelling  and  gram- 
mar. "Oh,  no,"  said  the  marchioness,  aghast  at  such 
ignorance.  "I  had  six  tutors  and  six  governesses,  all 
instructing  me  at  the  same  time — different  subjects,  of 
course."  Then  she'd  smile — her  bewildering,  lovely  smile. 
And  all  the  men  believed  in  her,  on  their  oath.  In  her  soft 
warm  hand  she  held  the  sceptre  of  triumphant  woman- 
hood. 

Alexandre  had  unexpectedly — after  luncheon — Terezia 
had  driven  over  to  spend  the  day  with  her  friends — been 
obliged  to  leave  for  town.  Madame  de  Lameth  had  been 
quite  distressed.     Terezia  had  taken  it  calmly. 

The  ladles  were  seated  on  the  west  terrace — so  sunny 
and  cheerful.  Terezia  was  playing  with  a  white  rose — 
she  was  all  In  white  herself — her  beautiful  eyes  kept  roving 
round  the  well-kept  gardens,  admiring  their  brilliant  au- 
tumn coloring. 

"How  peaceful  it  is,"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"Yet,  what  would  life  be  without  excitement — and 
love?" 

"Love  affairs  bore  me." 

Terezia  gave  Madame  de  Lameth  a  wondering  glance. 
"Why?     You  are  quite  pretty,"  she  said. 

"I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  I'm  a  happy  woman.  A  happy 
woman  has  no  need  for  love  affairs." 

"I  can  never  have  sufficient." 

"I'm  satisfied  with  Alexandre." 

"Are  you  so  sure  of  him?" 


REVOLUTION  85 

"Entirely.  He  flirts  with  every  woman  in  Paris — in- 
cluding yourself,  darling." 

Terezia  wasn't  going  to  be  browbeaten — by  a  little 
woman  with  a  sallow  skin,  too.  "I  love  your  husband," 
she  said  lazily.  "One  day,  when  you're  horrid,  we  intend 
to  run  away  together." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  can't  do  more  than  encourage  him. 
Didn't  you  hear  me  implore  Alexandre,  not  an  hour  ago, 
to  let  me  go  to  Paris  while  he  stayed  and  entertained 

you?" 

"I  heard  you." 

"Wasn't  it  unselfish.?" 

"No.  You  didn't  mean  it.  Madame,  have  you  heard 
the  news  from  Versailles?" 

"Too  terrible  for  words.  The  rabble  actually  forced 
their  way  into  the  queen's  private  apartments.  They 
menaced  her — and  the  royal  cliildren.'* 

"The  king  behaved  nobly." 

"Weakly." 

"He  promised " 

"A  king  acts — he  doesn't  promise !  Once  again  he  has 
let  an  opportunity  slip." 

"What  could  he  do?" 

"Assert  his  authority." 

*'M.  de  Ravoral  says  he  hasn't  any." 

"M.  de  Ravoral — for  all  his  nightcap  traditions — is  the 
greatest  socialist  I  know.  He  also  stands  aside — to  be 
trampled  on.  It's  maddening.  We'll  lose  our  heads  by  it, 
see  if  we  don't.  What  a  thousand  calamities  that  Mira- 
beau  is  dying,  before  he  has  finished  his  work.  It  isn't 
kind  of  God  to  make  unnecessary  trouble  in  this  world." 

"Who  cares  about  him!  He  deserves  his  fate.  I'm  a 
fatalist,  darling."  Terezia  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  terrace,  looking  very  superlative  indeed,  in  her  white 
silk  frock,  her  white  silk  sash,  her  white  transparent  silk 
stockings  and  her  white  satin  high-heeled  shoes.  Over  her 
arm  she  trailed  a  long  scarf  of  Brussels  lace. 

"And  you're  a  dear,"  she  said,  kissing  the  little  lady. 


86  TORCHLIGHT 

"I  promise  you  I'll  never  run  away  with  Alexandre,  at 
least  not  with  your  Alexandre.  Swear  you  won't  tell  him? 
I  hate  hurting  people's  feelings — but  I've  ceased  to  love 
him — entirely  and  for  ever;  I  never  said  a  truer  word. 
Cherie."  She  clutched  her  friend's  shoulder.  "Look  at 
me.     Trust  me.     You  do  believe  me.'"' 

"Who  is  he.?" 

"The  other  man.?'' 

"Yes." 

"How  did  you  guess.?'* 

"I'm  a  witch — or  a  sensible  woman.'* 

"You  are  more  than  sensible,  you  are  wonderful.  Guess 
again." 

"He's  in  the  house.'* 

"You're  a  miracle !    He  doesn't  know  it  himself." 

"I  wonder." 

"Don't.  It  is  a  fact.  I  adore  him  and  he  is  ignorant 
of  my  feelings.     Isn't  it  a  tragedy?" 

"Knowing  my  husband's  secretary,  I'd  say  yes.  He's 
an  abominable  man." 

Terezia  nodded.  "Don't  you  see?  That  is  just  what 
makes  him  so  attractive.  There  are  heaps  of  nice  men, 
just  like  your  sweet  Alexandre,  all  eyes,  poetry,  sighs — 
and  not  an  atom  of  feeling.  This  Tallien  is  a  furnace.  If 
he  touches  my  hand  it'll  burn  like  fire.  If  he  looks  at  me 
I'll  flame  from  head  to  foot.  I've  lain  awake  in  my  big, 
lonely  room  sobbing  for  him.     That's  love!" 

"He's  an  impostor." 

"No  matter!" 

"He's  lazy  and  impudent." 

"No  matter!     How  long  has  he  had  his  present  post?" 

"Some  three  or  four  months.  A  recommendation  from 
M.  Barras.  My  cousin  Paul  is  an  authority  whom  we 
can't  afford  to  neglect." 

"I've  never  met  him.'* 

"Just  as  well.'* 

"I'm  not  so  greedy  as  you  think.  Honestly,  Tallien, 
c'est  suffiscmt.     Has  he  made  love  to  you?" 


REVOLUTION  87 

"Pouff!  The  idea!  For  the  matter  of  that,  his  repu- 
tation is  scandalous." 

"It  would  be,"  she  said  softly.  "I  tell  you  he's  a  man 
of  fire." 

"I  find  him  detestable." 

"Are  his  parents  living?" 

"I've  never  inquired.  I  presume  liis  birth  isn't  his  chief 
attraction." 

"In  a  way,  yes.  Imagine  the  man's  audacity !  By  birth 
he  ought  to  pull  down  our  carriage  steps — dirt  beneath 
our  feet,  my  dear.  Through  liis  own  merits  he  has  raised 
himself " 

"In  these  topsy-turvy  times  that's  no  merit." 

"Naturally  he's  been  lucky." 

"Oh,  very." 

"Madame,  where  are  you  hiding  him.?" 

"He  seldom  lunches  with  us." 

"I  intend  to  see  him." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Terezia.  I've  always  declared  that 
you  are  not  a  bad  woman,  only  a  silly  child.  How  old 
are  you.'"' 

"Nearly  seventeen." 

"How's  the  baby?" 

"Quite  well — ask  Christina.  Hush !  I  hear  steps.  Dar- 
ling, I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  my  party." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind.    He's  not  of  our  world." 

"A  new  element." 

"A  dangerous  one.'* 

"Just  look  how  he  has  got  on.  A  year  ago  he  was  at 
Pantouche,  a  needy  printer's  devil,  earning  kicks  and 
pence.  Now  he  is  at  a  gentleman's  house,  at  a  gentle- 
man's occupation.  Next  year  M.  Tallien  will  employ  his 
own  secretary." 

"Et  puis?" 

Terezia  looked  dreamily  in  front  of  her.  "After  that 
he'll  earn  fame  and  love  and  wealth.'* 

"Splendid.     Who's  told  you?" 

"He— himself." 


88  TORCHLIGHT 

"So  you've  met  before?" 

"Once." 

«T'ja!" 

"It's  quite  true.  It  was  a  year  ago  at  Lebrun's  studio. 
I  remember  everything,  as  if  it  were  yesterday  .  .  .  love 
is  faithful." 

Madame  de  Lameth  got  up.  "I've  no  patience  with 
you,"  she  said.     "I'll  tell  Christina  to  whip  you  soundly." 

"I'm  in  earnest." 

"So  am  I.  In  my  heart  of  hearts  I've  always  liked  you. 
You  are  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  Such  a  hus- 
band! Poor  dear!  Come  in,  and  you  shall  have  a  big 
pear  and  look  at  little  Alexandre  in  his  bath.  How  time 
flies!     It  is  four  o'clock." 

"Look,"  said  Terezia ;  "there  he  is !" 

M.  Tallien — in  quite  a  creditable  coat  and  almost  an 
elegant  necktie — he  had  improved — came  towards  them, 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  bowing  deferentially. 

"Excuse  me,  mesdames,"  he  said  in  his  deep  voice,  look- 
ing at  Terezia.     "I  am  searching  for  M.  de  Lameth." 

"He  left  for  Paris  after  lunch." 

"A  thousand  pardons." 

Madame  de  Lameth  walked  on.  He  stepped  up  to  Ma- 
dame de  Fontenay.     "Am  I  forgotten.'"'  he  whispered. 

"No,"  she  murmured. 

"I  am  amply  rewarded " 

"For  what.?" 

"A  lost  year,  madame." 

"I  congratulate  you  on  your  present  position,  mon- 
sieur." 

"I  do  not  intend  to  retain  it  for  long." 

*'And  your  next  move.'"' 

"A  leap  into  the  light,  madame." 

She  nodded  and  ran  after  Mad? me  de  Lameth,  smiling 
as  much  as  to  say — Is  not  this  a  wonderful  creature?  She 
met  coldly  unresponsive  eyes. 

"We  will  not  detain  you,  monsieur,"  said  Madame  de 
Lameth  to  the  secretary. 


REVOLUTION  89 

"I  am  entirely  at  your  service."  His  eyes  met  hers  with 
a  challenging  glance,  a  contemptuous,  half-pitying  glance. 

"Have  the  goodness  to  gather  Madame  de  Fontenay  a 
bunch  of  roses,"  returned  the  lady,  icily,  ignoring  his 
insolence. 

"Please  do,"  said  Terezia.  "I  will  carry  them  home 
with  much  pleasure." 

"I  love  white  roses  and  all  they  represent,"  he  declared, 
entirely  mollified.    "The  roses  of  Bois-le-Vert  are  famous." 

"Yes,"  said  Terezia. 

His  eyes  swept  her  from  her  feet  to  the  crown  of  her 
uncovered  head.  She  drank  in  his  admiration.  She  moved 
into  the  sunlight.  "Follow  me,"  she  said,  "I  will  show  you 
my  favorite  tree,  with  madame's  kind  permission."  She 
gave  her  friend  a  swift  triumphant  glance.  Didn't  she, 
Terezia,  invariably  get  her  own  way?  The  gods  fight  for 
those  they  love.  The  gods  would  surely  fight  for  Tallien 
— this  tall  young  man,  whose  taste  in  neckties  had  con- 
siderably improved. 

She  remembered  their  first  meeting  and  every  word  he 
had  spoken  to  her.  She  walked  very  upright,  with  slow, 
sensuous  grace.  In  her  hand  she  trailed  her  Brussels 
scarf,  and  on  the  little  finger  of  her  left  hand  gleamed 
a  huge  diamond.     The  sun  burnished  her  wonderful  hair. 

Madame  de  Lameth  picked  up  Terezia's  hat,  which  she 
had  carelessly  dropped  on  the  path,  and  resigned  herself 
to  the  inevitable.  She  deplored  dear  Terezia's  question- 
able taste.  Tallien  was  a  cad.  She  went  indoors  to  fetch 
a  pair  of  scissors  and  a  length  of  ribbon.  She  wasn't 
going  to  have  her  roses  spoiled  to  please  anyone  in  the 
world. 

She  found  them  standing  together  under  a  great  rose- 
tree.  They  weren't  speaking.  Terezia's  breath  came 
sharp  and  quick  and  the  flush  had  deepened  on  her  soft 
round  cheeks.  Tallien  was  looking  excessively  calm.  His 
long,  square-tipped  fingers  were  trying  to  grasp  a  branch 
just  beyond  his  reach.  He  bounded  in  the  air,  caught  a 
splendid  rose,  and  brushed  it  across  Terezia's  mouth. 


90  TORCHLIGHT 

"My  first  kiss,"  he  whispered  so  low  that  she  scarcely 
heard  him.     Every  nerve  was  tingling  in  her  body. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Make  haste,"  she  said,  as  if  waking  from  a  trance. 
"We  must  not  keep  Madame  de  Lameth  waiting.  The 
scissors,  the  scissors!"  she  cried  gaily.  "Now,  monsieur, 
do  your  best  to  please  us  both." 

Tallien  broke  off  the  rose  which  had  touched  Terezia's 
mouth.  "I  thank  you,  madame,"  he  said.  He  placed 
the  rose  in  his  buttonhole.  "I  will  not  detain  you  many 
minutes,"  he  said,  as  he  deftly  cut  Terezia  a  few  choice 
blooms. 

He  handed  the  bunch  to  her  with  a  bow.  "Allow  me, 
madame,"  said  he. 

She  thanked  him  with  her  eyes. 

Half-way  home  she  remembered  she  had  quite  forgotten 
to  ask  Tallien  to  her  party.  Should  she  send  him  a  card.? 
She  decided  against  tliis.  The  gods  would  act  for  him. 
She  buried  her  face  in  his  roses. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

npEREZIA  stood  frowning  in  front  of  her  dressing- 
■■•  table  mirror.  She  was  fingering  a  tricolor  cockade, 
undecided  where  to  place  it.  It  spoiled  her  toilette,  it  was 
flashy  and  gaudy  and  inartistic,  just  the  kind  of  favor 
men  would  invent  to  try  the  patience  of  artistic  women- 
kind. 

"You  see  yourself,  Christina,"  said  Terezia,  holding  out 
the  despised  ribbon,  "in  my  hair  it  is  obviously  wrong,  on 
my  bodice  it  clashes  with  my  sash " 

"With  a  white  dress  any  sash  will  do.  There  is  a  nice 
red  ribbon  in  your  drawer " 

"It'll  stay  there.  I  am  wearing  pale-blue  to-day  and  no 
other  color.  For  what  purpose  did  I  get  my  turquoises 
out  of  the  safe  in  the  teeth  of  monsieur's  opposition?" 
Terezia  patted  a  charming  necklace  which  showed  up  her 
white  neck  to  perfection.  "Blue  is  the  Virgin's  color.  I 
am  going  to  be  saintly  to-day.  Whatever  provocations 
are  in  store  for  me  I  am  going  to  face  them  with  angelic 
fortitude."  With  a  quick  movement  she  pinned  the  de- 
spised cockade  (a  fairly  large  one)  as  an  order  below  her 
left  breast.  "Well,  anyhow,  it  draws  attention  to  my  fig- 
ure. Don't  you  hate  prejudice?  All  the  new  people  revel 
in  these  badges.  They  say  the  king,  to  placate  his  ene- 
mies, wears  one  himself  in  his  hat,  and  that  the  queen 
carries  hers,  en  cachet,  in  the  hollow  of  her  shoe.  She  has 
always  trampled  on  popular  opinion.  Now  she  is  the  most 
disliked  woman  in  France.  I  have  heard  such  dreadful 
things  about  her — I  wonder  if  they  are  true.  .  .   ." 

Terezia  had,  as  usual,  talked  herself  into  a  good  temper. 
With  lavish  generosity  she  scented  her  fine  lace  handker- 
chief. 

Christina  remonstrated. 

91 


92  TORCHLIGHT 

"I  am  doing  it  on  purpose,"  she  said.  "One  never 
knows  nowadays  whom  one  may  meet  or  where  they  have 
come  from.  I  wish  the  honorable  deputies  talked  less  and 
washed  more.  I  believe  they  really  keep  themselves  dirty 
to  please  the  people.  The  people!"  Terezia  whirled  to- 
wards the  door  in  indignant  haste.  *'I  tell  you,  Christina, 
we  are  too  kind  to  the  people — after  all  they  are  terribly 
uninteresting,  and  we  have  all  got  to  weep  over  their 
troubles  and  pretend  to  make  a  frightful  fuss  of  them 
— dirty  gutter-snipes!  I  am  like  a  fine-bred  dog  who 
barks  at  rags — indeed  I  am.  But  of  course  when  M. 
Robespierre  airs  their  grievances  I  am  the  first  to  sob. 
I  am  sure  this  Robespierre  is  deceitful.  I  generally  get 
on  well  with  men,  but  I  dislike  his  sickliness  and  his  smiles. 
Come  out,  Christina,  and  watch  him  to-day.  You  never 
enjoy  my  parties.  Everyone  says  they  are  brilliant.  .  .  . 
Christina,  I  have  forgotten  my  watch.  .  .  .  Six  o'clock! 
Oh,  I  must  fly.' 


j> 


The  Marquis  and  the  Marquise  de  Fontenay  stood  on 
the  upper  terrace  to  welcome  their  friends.  The  marquis 
had  got  himself  up  in  blue  and  yellow — he  looked  like  an 
ungainly  butterfly ;  he  never  remained  still  for  one  minute ; 
he  ran  forward,  he  ran  backwards,  he  bowed,  he  kissed 
hands,  he  pirouetted — all  within  a  prescribed  space. 

His  tall  wife  did  the  honors  after  the  manner  of  Ver- 
sailles (all  women  are  more  or  less  adaptive)  ;  except  for 
the  prescribed  dignified  curtsy  she  stood  immovable,  ex- 
tending a  gracious  hand  to  the  men,  poising  it  at  the  exact 
level  to  receive  the  customary  salute.  She  might  all  her 
life  have  done  nothing  but  "receive."  How  did  this  child 
— barely  seventeen — arrive  at  such  distinction? 

"Allow  me  to  present  to  you,  madame.  Deputy  Viscount 
Paul  de  Barras." 

"Charmed  to  see  you,  monsieur."  She  gave  him  a  pass- 
ing glance — and  passed  him  over.  M.  Barras  bowed  pro- 
foundly, kissed  the  beauty's  hand  with  lingering  attention, 
and  withdrew  into  the  general  company. 


REVOLUTION  93 

He  was  a  tall,  squarely-built  man  with  rugged  features, 
a  sensuous  mouth,  a  fleshy  nose,  very  handsomely  dressed, 
with  a  very  handsome  opinion  of  himself.  He  was  M. 
Robespierre's  political  opponent,  and  by  his  deportment 
and  pacific  speeches  he  had  already  gained  some  notoriety 
in  the  Assembly.  He  talked  easily  and  willingly — which 
is  but  natural  to  a  man  with  a  handsome  opinion  of  him- 
self. The  king,  they  said,  was  personally  attached  to  M. 
Barras.     His  birth  was  unimpeachable. 

^'Bonjour,  monsieur;  charmed  to  see  you." 

Terezia  smiled  very  agreeably  at  Deputy  Camille  Des- 
moulins — she  had  met  him  at  least  six  times  in  her  life, 
which  constituted  old  acquaintanceship  in  those  days.  He 
was  cynical,  witty,  good-looking,  and  very  happily  mar- 
ried. 

"You  know  M.  Robespierre?"  he  said,  stepping  back 
to  give  that  gentleman  an  opportunity  of  paying  his  re- 
spects to  his  hostess. 

"Charmed  to  see  you,  monsieur,"  said  Terezia,  dropping 
the  "great"  man  a  splendid  reverence. 

He'd  come  to  her  party  after  all.  Camille  Desmoulins 
had  forcibly  carried  him  off  in  his  cabriolet.  "I'll  take  no 
refusal,"  he'd  said  gaily.  "Why,  man,  you  are  working 
yourself  to  death.  No  cause  is  worth  it.  Remember  Mira- 
beau — if  he'd  spared  himself  he  would  have  died  rich  in 
years.     A  day,  or  half  a  day  of  pure  folly " 

"Is  it  so  pure?'* 

*'I'll  tell  you  to-morrow.  Come  and  eat  lobster  and  ices 
in  the  Fontenay  woods.  They're  delicious.  And  the  di- 
vine Terezia  is  incomparably  the  loveliest  creature  in  cre- 
ation.    And  you'll  hear  music,  singing  and  laughter." 

Robespierre  had  shivered.  He  suffered  from  acute  in- 
digestion and  he  had  a  horror  of  "pleasure."  His  pleasure 
had  rather  an  ugly  color — at  that  time.  Not  a  mortal 
soul  quite  realized  how  ugly.  On  this  particular  morning 
— the  day  of  Terezia's  picnic — an  absurd  title  for  a 
sumptuous  al  fresco  supper,  served  with  every  possible 
luxury — he'd  woken  with  a  dull  pain  in  his  head  and  a 


94  TORCHLIGHT 

tearing  knife  at  his  stomach.     It  had  made  him  work  all 
the  better. 

He  had  looked  at  Desmoulins,  whom  he  designated  a 
foolish  ape — there  were  many  foolish  apes,  according  to 
Robespierre,  disporting  themselves  in  the  House  of  As- 
sembly. He  hated  listening  to  their  inane  chatter  .  .  . 
chattering  wouldn't  do  it — and  then  he'd  flushed  at  sight 
of  his  overloaded  desk.  Work — work — work — like  a 
mighty  and  remorseless  hammer  the  edict  of  man  crowded 
out  blessed  inspiration.  (His  vilest  schemes  were  to  him 
sacred.)  ...  He  had  looked  at  his  feverish  hands — a 
little  change  might  do  him  good,  and  bring  him  fresh  in- 
spiration .  .  .  he'd  have  a  look  at  the  female  monkeys. 
He  laughed  harshly. 

"I'll  come,"  he  said,  linking  his  arm  within  Desmoulins'. 
*'The  Fates  know  best  .   .   .  mon  ami,  what  fools  they  are." 
"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  laughed  DesmouHns.     "I've  a 
great  respect  for  the  ladies." 

M.  Robespierre  proceeded  with  his  protracted  toilet, 
while  Desmoulins  kicked  his  heels  in  the  next  room,  and 
turned  over  one  or  two  of  the  member  of  Arras'  books — 
very  odd  titles.  Desmoulins  put  them  down  as  if  they'd 
bunied  him — he  didn^'t  like  the  ultra-modern,  ranting  the- 
ory .  .  .  down  with  state,  church,  and  king.  .  .  .  Moon- 
shine, of  course,  the  fixment  of  some  poor  devil's  diseased 
brain,  but,  for  all  that,  pernicious  stuff.  He  wondered 
Robespierre  allowed  such  truck  in  his  room.  "Ah,  there 
you  are,"  he  said.  "My  horse  is  as  fresh  as  a  daisy." 
"Confound  the  dust,"  said  Robespierre,  turning  up  the 
collar  of  his  gray  linen  coat.  He  was  a  finicky  little  man 
— and  he  hated  dust.  "A  tender  eater,"  as  someone  de- 
scribed him,  at  this  period.  He  had  his  own  little  notions, 
Robespierre.  Presently,  driving  through  the  famous  and 
shady  park  of  Fontenay,  he  broke  into  song: 

The  queen  is  in  her  dairy. 
The  king  is  in  his  forge. 
The  queen  is  making  butter. 
The  king  a  master-key. 


REVOLUTION  95 

Desmoullns  laughed.  "No  idea  you  were  a  minstrel," 
he  said. 

Robespierre  unbuttoned  his  dust  cloak.  "I'm  many 
things,"  he  said,  modestly.  "One  day  I'll  show  myself  to 
my  best  advantage." 

"I  hope  I'll  be  present,"  said  Desmoulins  cheerily. 

"God,  look  at  that  rut !" 

They  had  been  very  nearly  overturned.  The  little, 
high-swung  cart,  on  two  wheels,  had  leaned  at  a  perilous 
angle,  and  Representative  Robespierre  had  turned  more 
than  his  usual  sickly  pea-green  color.  Desmoulins,  who 
was  a  ruddy-skinned,  healthy  man,  could  not  stand  his 
honorable  colleague's  complexion.  It  reminded  him,  he 
said,  of  boiled  mutton. 

"I  wish  you'd  be  more  careful;  you  oughtn't  to  be 
trusted  with  horses." 

Desmoulins  flicked  a  fly  gently  off  the  ear  of  his  spir- 
ited chestnut.  "So — gently,  old  boy,"  he  said.  "For  the 
matter  of  that,  I  wonder  if  you  are  to  be  trusted  with 
men." 

Robespierre  folded  his  coat  very  neatly  on  his  knee. 
"Lambs,"  he  bleated.     "They  are  all  lambs.'* 

"Of  a  dangerous  breed,  sir." 

"Not  if  you  know  how  to  manage  them." 

"That  is  just  my  point.  The  temper,  last  night,  in  the 
house  was  very  hot." 

"It'll  get  warmer — much  warmer."  He  peered  up  at 
the  charming  perspective  of  the  old  Chateau  de  Fontenay, 
bedded  in  historical  woods — a  peaceful,  rural,  seigneurial 
picture  of  unobtrusive  luxury.  It  was  a  rich  man's  place. 
The  blue  sky  and  the  autumn  foliage  toned  admirably. 
The  terrace  was  thronged  with  a  representative  and  rather 
mixed  gathering.  From  the  stable-yard  you  could  hear 
the  neighing  of  horses  and  the  clatter  of  vehicles — there 
was  life  in  the  picture  and  old  tradition.  The  sun  caught 
the  west  front  of  the  old  mansion  in  a  ruddy  embrace. 
Ivy  gleamed  on  the  mellow  red-brick  walls,  and  the  tall 
windows  were  elegantly  festooned  with  white  lace  curtains. 


96  TORCHLIGHT 

By  the  gates — surmounted  with  the  arms  of  the  house  of 
Fontenaj — two  tall  lackeys,  in  the  green-and-red  liveries 
of  the  family,  stood,  very  ornamentally  fulfilling  their 
duties.  They  bowed  obsequiously  as  the  light  cart  bowled 
through  the  gates. 

Robespierre  folded  his  hands  together — they  were  gloved 
in  palest  lemon  kid.  "We'll  finish  with  all  that,"  he  said 
pleasantly. 

"Eh?" 

"Nothing,  nothing  at  all,  my  friend.  Attend  to  your 
horse." 

"Aren't  you  glad  you  came?" 

"Delighted." 

Desmoulins  wasn't  quite  so  sure  of  his  own  feelings. 
Truth  to  tell,  he  felt  uncomfortable.  He  half  regretted 
having  enticed  M.  Robespierre  to  the  party.  His  pres- 
ence wasn't  as  cheering  as  it  ought  to  be.  Lord  bless 
him !  On  an  occasion  like  this  everyone  ought  to  be 
friends.  He  felt  convinced  that  the  member  for  Arras 
had  brought  his  and  the  "people's"  confounded  cause  with 
him.  He  rather  loved  to  parade  his  political  opinions. 
Desmoulins  frowned.  No  doubt  that  the  honorable  mem- 
ber was  a  howling  radical.  It  was  he,  and  men  of  his 
inflated  ideas,  who  fanned  the  worst  temj>ers  of  the  crowd. 
A  crowd  is  peaceable  until  you  excite  it  .  .  .  once  let  it 
get  out  of  bounds,  and  there's  the  devil  to  pay. 

A  woman's  clear,  silvery  laugh  seemed  to  challenge  his 
thoughts.  He  recognized  Madame  de  Lameth,  coming 
down  the  drive  attended  by  M.  de  Lameth. 

"Isn't  it  a  perfect  afternoon?"  she  cried.  **You  are 
late,  monsieur." 

"Bonsoir,  madame,"  called  Robespierre,  raising  his  hat. 
"Never  fear,  we'll  catch  you  up." 

"Sir,"  she  said,  drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height 
— which  wasn't  much — "I've  never  been  afraid  in  all  my 
life !"    And  she  passed  on. 

"There,"  said  Desmoulins.  "They  are  all  like  that.  For 
sheer  spirit  and  audacity  give  me  a  noble  Frenchwoman." 


REVOLUTION  97 

*'Sir,  I'll  keep  the  pick  of  the  bunch  for  myself." 

"Ha-ha!"  Handsome  Desmoulins  laughed  loudly.  (M. 
Robespierre  was  notoriously  indifferent  to  the  charms  of 
lovely  woman.)  "That's  right,  man,"  he  said.  "Keep  it 
up;  live,  eat  and  be  merry!  I  warrant  you  the  supper 
will  be  luscious.  As  to  the  ladies — look  at  them!  Bless 
their  hearts,  I  wish  I  had  it  in  my  heart  to  love  them  all." 

"Rather  less  will  satisfy  me." 

Again  the  tone  of  his  companion's  voice  vexed  Desmou- 
lins. There  was  a  kind  of  dull  finality  about  it.  In  grim 
silence  he  flung  the  reins  into  the  hands  of  a  groom. 

He  stalked  in  front  of  Robespierre  towards  Terezia — 
standing  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of  wide  marble  stairs, 
reaching  to  the  balcony  terrace.  The  sun  flamed  around 
her. 

"Remember,  sir,"  said  Desmoulins,  "not  to  air  your 
bear  tricks  here.  We  are  not  in  the  House.  And  the 
people — curse  'em — are  on  the  other  side  of  the  world." 

"I  understand.  M}^  dear  fellow,  I  always  hope,  what- 
ever my  political  sentiments  may  be,  that  I  can,  on  all 
occasions,  conduct  myself  as  a  gentleman." 

"No  doubt,  sir,"  said  Desmoulins,  politely. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  that  strange  crowd  beneath  the 
famous  Fontenay  chestnuts  (faintly  red)  and  how  Terezia 
enjoyed  herself;  how  her  '"''clier  Devin"  shone  in  her  smiles  ; 
how  excellently  well  the  village  girls  performed  their 
dance;  how  prettily  Claire  Cardilac  behaved;  how  veuve 
Boisgaloup — resplendent  in  Tnoire  antique — turned  the 
cold  shoulder  on  Robespierre — he  a  glitter  of  sea-green 
cloth  and  silver  lace;  how  everyone  sported  the  tricolor 
colors  and  talked  the  politics  of  the  day.  No  silence 
under  the  century-old  trees — they  very  quiet  in  the  Sep- 
tember calm,  looking  down  on  this  frolic  (in  the  midst  of 
revolution).  Did  the  night-wind,  hushing  her  breath, 
guess  at  the  frightful  secrets  held  in  each  man's  heart? 
What  a  travesty  of  innocence !  What  a  mockery  of  mirth ! 
A  few  great  ladies  were  present   (by  reason  of  policy). 


98  TORCHLIGHT 

By  reason  of  policy  they  wore  the  national  colors  and 
conversed  amiably  with  "insufferable  upstarts." 

The  conversation  was  mainly  frivolous,  but  underneath 
the  banter  and  light  talk  ran  a  current  of  menace  and 
gravity. 

One  or  two  of  the  men  were  within  an  inch  of  an  open 
fight.  (The  Fontenay  wine  was  strong.)  They  snarled 
at  each  other  like  very  common  and  ugly  curs.  Little  de 
Fontenay  turned  a  pale  lilac  shade  beneath  his  vivid  hair 
— so  terrified  was  he  of  scandal.  He  called  for  peace. 
"Gentlemen,  gentlemen,'*  said  he  in  a  voice  he  vainly  tried 
to  make  easy,  "at  a  feast  of  beauty  and  intellect  angry 
words  are  out  of  place." 

Terezia  swept  down  on  the  gentlemen  who  were  behav- 
ing as  very  ugly  and  common  curs — she  separated  them 
by  placing  herself  between  the  two.  "Messieurs,"  she 
said,  "I  order  you  to  love  each  other.  Reconciliation 
is  the  sole  excuse  for  bad  temper." 
The  company  applauded. 

The  would-be  combatants  with  grudging  good-nature 
shook  hands.  One  of  them  fell  on  his  knees  and  kissed  the 
hem  of  his  "benefactress's"  embroidered  robe.  This  pleased 
the  benefactress  enormously.  She  smiled  happily,  and 
smoothed  both  his  ruffled  hair  and  his  ruffled  spirits.  It 
ended  by  the  other  gentleman  suffering  himself  to  be  led 
away  spouting  poetry  to  an  accompaniment  of  watery 
eyes: 

All  ye  who  dwell  within  the  shade 

Repine  not.     Nothing  which  is  made, 

Wind  blown  by  God's  decree 

On  earth  or  in  the  sea. 

Is  utterly  lost  or  free. 

He  felt — so  he  declared — on  the  verge  of  ecstasy  and 
celestial  bliss.  He  would  never,  never  forget  the  charm 
of  the  chatelaine  of  Fontenay,  nor  her  compassion  and 
sympathy.  .   .  . 

As  Terezia  afterwards  declared  to  her  husband,  "A 
little   tact   makes   the  world  go   round." 


CHAPTER    XIV 

MADAME  DE  FONTENAY'S  evening  party  was 
entirely  successful,  in  spite  of  M.  de  Fontenay  hav- 
ing caught  such  a  bad  cold  that  he  had  been  obliged  ever 
since  to  keep  to  his  own  rooms.  Some  three  weeks  after, 
Terezia,  who  had  no  sympathy  for  her  husband,  told  her 
friends  in  confidence  (there's  nothing  which  has  a  wider 
circulation)  that  little  Devin  was  quite  all  right,  as  far 
as  his  health  went,  but  that  his  nerves  were  shattered. 
He'd  been  "insulted"  by  his  own  tenants.  They'd  flung 
stones  at  him  and  used  awful  language.  They'd  threat- 
ened to  burn  up  his  ancestral  castle — she  felt  so  sorry  for 
all  their  refined  ghosts — and,  what  was  worse,  if  they  ever 
caught  sight  of  him  again,  they'd  wring  his  neck.  Poor 
dear  Devin  did  so  fancy  his  neck.  .  .  .  Terezia  raised  her 
eyes  to  heaven,  and  piously  committed  her  husband  to  the 
charge  of  his  patron  saint.  Obviously  (she  said)  the  saint 
had  instructed  him  to  keep  to  his  rooms,  pending  happier 
days.  They  were  bound  to  come.  She'd  great  hopes  of 
the  New  Year.  On  New  Year's  Day  they  were  going  to 
give  a  splendid  subscription  ball  in  Paris,  under  royal 
patronage — for  the  poor.  Well,  could  they  in  decency 
ask  for  more.''  Terezia  promised  that  she'd  dance  her 
shoes  into  rags.  Everyone  applauded  her  charitableness. 
After  that  ball — tickets  at  two  guineas  apiece,  not  includ- 
ing supper — the  decorations  were  to  be  on  a  very  lavish 
scale — the  wretched  people  would  fall  on  their  knees  and 
pray  for  mercy.  The  question  was — would  the  king  for- 
give them?  Certainly  he  would.  The  king  was  so  long- 
suffering,  and  had  a  heart  of  gold.  What  a  pity,  said  a 
wit,  that  he  couldn't  cut  it  into  just  pieces  and  distribute 
them  amongst  the  people.     For  fault  of  bread  they  now 

99 


IGO  TORCHLIGHT 

demanded  gold!  Gold  for  the  people!  A  great  many 
sober  aristocrats  laughed  merrily  at  the  wit's  address, 
"But  he  was  droll,"  they  said. 

Follow  us  up  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  and  let  us  stop,  i£ 
you  please,  nearly  opposite  the  cross-road  Rue  Saint  Floe- 
otine,  at  the  house  of  one  Duplay,  a  carpenter.     In  these 
hard  times  he  had  let  his  rooms  to  Deputy  Robespierre — 
two  modest  rooms  over  the  courtyard — one  he  used  as  his 
bedroom  and  the  other  as  his  office.     His  secretary  had 
the  goodwill  of  a  box-bed  on  the  draughty  landing,  which 
also  contained  his  desk  and  office  stool.     It  is  always  best 
to  begin  humbly.     (For  the  matter  of  that  Deputy  Robes- 
pierre retained  his  modest  chambers  until  the  day  of  his 
death.     Somehow  or  other  the  honest  carpenter  had  diffi- 
culty in  letting  them  again.     People  didn't  like  to  come 
in  after  his  late  tenant.     He'd  died  quite  a  commonplace 
death — but  all  the  same,  people  have  their  prejudices.     In 
fact,  the  proprietor  might  have  turned  an  honest  penny 
if  he'd  charged  a  trifling  sum  and  admitted  the  public  to 
view  the  late  Maximilien  Robespierre's  apartment,  keeping 
the  furnishing  of  the  said  rooms  intact — the  ruby  lamp, 
swinging  in  the  alcove  over  the  narrow  iron  bedstead — 
the  little  writing-table,  by  the  window;  the  citizen's  shav- 
ing and  powdering  gowns,  hanging  negligently  over  the 
back    of    his    high-backed,    green    rep-upholstered    easy 
chair.  .  .  .) 

To  return  to  the  present,  let  us  follow  the  seedy  clerk 
into  his  master's  presence. 

He  bowed  humbly  and  handed  him  a  visiting-card. 

"What's  that.?"  said  Robespierre.  "The  devil,  didn't 
I  tell  you  not  to  disturb  me!" 

*'The  gentleman " 

"To  blazes !" 

"He  is  very  insistent." 

"They  all  are;  wasps.     I'll  smoke  'em  out  presently." 

He  twisted  round  in  his  chair,  scratching  his  neck — (he 
was  wearing  his  flowered  chintz  dressing-gown  and  his 
white  pantaloons  were  very  visible) — a  trick  of  his  which 


REVOLUTION  101 

gave  the  impression  of  some  local  irritation,  heightened 
hy  the  sight  of  a  pimply  eruption, 

"  'Jean  Lambert  Tallien,'  "  he  read,  scanning  the  card. 
''  'Redacteur.*  Show  him  in.  And  show  him  out  the  mo- 
ment I  sound  my  bell." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Citizen,"   snapped   Robespierre. 

*'Yes,  citizen,"  said  the  clerk,  with  a  broad  grin. 

On  the  heels  of  the  elated  clerk  (who'd  quite  expected  a 
severe  drubbing  for  his  five-franc  piece — the  exact  amount 
of  the  tall  gentleman's  bribe)  Tallien,  in  a  swallow-tailed 
green  coat — with  brass  buttons,  and  a  primrose-tinted 
kerchief  swathed  round  his  lace-edged  collar — advanced, 
with  his  usual  imperturbability,  into  the  centre  of  the 
room.  Evidently  he'd  been  listening  outside  the  door — 
probably  to  save  the  secretary's  valuable  time.''  Some 
men  are  so  thoughtful. 

"Good-morning,  citizens,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "Quite 
a  snap  of  frost  in  the  air.  You  are  comfortably  warm 
in  here."  (The  vitiated  air  was  heavy  as  lead.)  "Don't 
trouble  to  move.     You  can  go,  my  man." 

Tallien  waved  three  erect  fingers  at  the  astonished  clerk. 
Here  was  a  gentleman  of  extraordinary  sang-froid. 

"Go  to  the  devil,"  rasped  Robespierre.  As  he  didn't 
look  up  from  his  papers — he  was  scribbling  as  fast  as  he 
could  go,  with  his  nose  almost  touching  his  desk — either 
man  could  have  taken  the  permission  to  himself.  The 
clerk,  being  more  at  home,  availed  himself  of  his  patron's 
civility.     In  fact  he  vanished  with  considerable  briskness. 

Tallien  swayed  across  the  floor  and  closed  the  door 
carefully  after  him,  stuffing  the  keyhole  with  a  scrap  of 
paper.  "An  eavesdropper  is  contemptible,"  he  remarked, 
*'but  just  as  well  to  avoid  him.'* 

He  pulled  a  chair  from  the  wall  and  sat  down,  facing 
the  light  and  Robespierre.  He  eyed  him  critically,  as  with 
his  handkerchief  he  flicked  at  his  boots.  "Dusty  weather," 
he  remarked.  "It  clashes  with  the  frost.  Times  are  out 
of  gear.' 


5> 


102  TORCHLIGHT 

Robespierre  dashed  his  pen  on  the  table. 

Tallien  shook  his  head.  "Gently,"  he  said.  "You've 
blotted  the  sheet.     May  be  something  valuable.?" 

"What's  your  business,  citizen?" 

Tallien  pursed  his  thick  lips  as  if  on  the  point  of  whis- 
tling. However,  he  refrained.  "You  have  got  my  card 
— there  it  is  in  front  of  your  nose." 

"Who  are  you.''" 

"A  man  of  the  people.  My  mother  is  alive.  My  father 
is  dead — he  died  in  the  service  of  monsieur  le  vicomte  de 
Rochenoir — one  of  his  valet s-de-chambre — he  kept  fifteen 
— great  style — famous  chateau — friend  of  du  Barri,  and 
Louis  XV.  ...  I  hate  the  aristocrats." 

The  young  man,  from  beginning  his  sentence  with  a 
certain  flippancy,  ended  it  on  a  note  of  vital  simplicity 
and  great  earnestness. 

"Redacteur,"  said  Robespierre,  fingering  his  visitor's 
vulgar  card.  It  was  inscribed  by  hand — a  great  sprawling 
hand — Tallien's   own. 

"Of  a  great  paper,  L'Ami  des  Citoi/ens." 

"Never  heard  of  it." 

"The  first  number  appears  the  day  after  to-morrow,  on 
the  tenth  of  October.  I  just  hit  on  the  date  by  chance. 
I'm  not  in  the  least  superstitious — but  I  never  fly  in  the 
face  of  fate.  That  date,  sir,  flapped  in  my  face  as  a  pair 
of  bat's  wings  in  the  dark.    I  had  to  fix  on  it — the  tenth." 

Robespierre  trembled.  He  screwed  his  little  mouth  into 
a  comical  shape.  Tallien  dimly  realized  that  he  was  try- 
ing to  smile.     A  very  ludicrous  exhibition. 

"The  worst  is  over,"  said  Tallien. 

"Or  beginning,"  said  Robespierre,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"I'm  twenty-four  and  I  look  older,"  continued  Tallien. 
"I'n>  beholden  to  no  man.  I  cut  my  father's  calling  as 
beneath  my  ambition.  A  man  in  a  striped  waistcoat,  shirt- 
sleeves, a  baize  apron,  holding  a  broom,  cuts  a  ridiculous 
figure,  even  when  opening  the  door  for  his  master's  light- 
o'-love.  Such  intrigues  would  never  satisfy  me.  Like 
you,  sir,  I  see — large." 


REVOLUTION  103 

He  spread  out  his  hands — very  big  hands — and,  at  the 
present  moment,  mottled  and  red.  "Together  we  could 
do  a  stretch,"  he  said.  He  opened  his  mouth — a  very 
wide  mouth — to  a  surprising  capacity.  "Citizen,  I'm  as 
hungry  as  a  hunter  for  my  food.  Only  I  insist  on  the 
right  sort." 

He  didn't  laugh.  He  put  down  his  hands  and  he  closed 
his  mouth,  shutting  it  tight  as  if  afraid  of  a  single  word 
escaping  him. 

Robespierre  nodded.  He  took  up  his  pen  and  bit  it. 
He  put  it  down  again  and  he  took  it  up  again  and  bit  it. 
.    .    .    "Further?" 

"I  started  as  one  of  Pantouche's  men.  Quite  a  subor- 
dinate post.  However,  I  learned  a  trick  or  two.  Can  turn 
a  sentence  pretty  neatly."  His  eyes  twinkled.  "Every 
scrap  of  knowledge  is  useful.  From  my  late  lamented 
parent's  lips  I've  memorized  quite  a  store  of  facts  dealing 
with  aristocratic  barbarities — or  shall  we  say  blunders.'' 
They're  dipped  pretty  deeply  in  guilt.  Up  to  their  necks, 
citizen.  A  life  for  a  life.  You'll  like  it  hot — the  hotter 
the  better.  'The  Citizens'  Friend'  will  be  nothing  if  not 
a  firebrand.  Given  a  likely  wind  we'll  soon  have  France 
fizzling.  It'll  be  a  boon  and  blessing  to  man.  A  new  form 
of  blessing,  too.     That  makes  it  all  the  more  striking." 

*'After  Pantouche  kicked  you  out  of  his  place.'' " 

"Pantouche  didn't.  I  chucked  him.  I  met  a  woman 
who  gave  me  ideas — no  matter — we'll  leave  her  outside  the 
question — though  she  filled  it  entirely.  An  amazingly 
beautiful  creature." 

"Damn  you !  Do  you  think  I've  time  to  listen  to  your 
dirty  love  affairs?" 

"Wrong  again.  I've  seen  her  twice  and  I've  kissed  her 
once — through  the  heart  of  a  rose.  Poetical?  At  a  pinch 
I'll  run  to  poetry.  One  of  my  best  friends  is  a  consump- 
tive poet.  He  writes  the  worst  verse  in  Paris — 'mazin' 
clever.  He'll  sub-edit  the  poets'  comer.  The  people  like 
verse  with  an  edge  to  it — saws  versus  knives." 


104  TORCHLIGHT 

"I  am  to  understand  that  jou  have  left  the  printing 
office?" 

"Exactly,  sir, — a  year  ago  precisely.  The  master's 
daughter  wept.  Fancy  aspiring  to  me!  Cheek!  She 
might  as  well  hope  for  a  bloated  aristocrat.  .  .  .  The 
beauty  with  the  heart  of  a  rose — no  matter.  We'll  edu- 
cate her — by  blood.  If  you  can  make  a  gentleman  out 
of  a  swineherd  you  can  turn  a  lady  into  a  slut.  Neither 
you  nor  I,  citizen,  will  stick  at  a  point  to  gain  a  step. 
Each  step  is  invaluable.  At  M.  de  Lameth's  I've  learned 
more  in  twelve  months  than  during  my  five  years'  experi- 
ence at  Pantouche's." 

"You  don't  edit  a  paper  on  nothing." 

"Exactly." 

"Go  to  the  devil!" 

"Exactly.  I've  practically  sworn  to  serve  you — with 
my  heart,  soul,  and  body."  Tallien,  who  had  never  once 
raised  his  voice  from  a  uniform  drawl,  here  flicked  his 
boots  with  his  handkerchief. 

Robespierre  got  up  and  faced  him.  He  stood  over  him, 
peering  down  at  his  vast  complacency.  "You  think  a 
precious  deal  of  yourself,  young  man." 

"All  that  and  more." 

"Why  come  whining  to  me?     I  can't  help  you." 

Tallien  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Isn't  that  a  trifle 
ambiguous?  To  true  patriots  riches  and  poverty  are  the 
same  thing.  We  all  share  and  share  alike.  Equality,  fra- 
ternity, liberty." 

He  repeated  the  last  words  very  smoothly.  "Citoyen,** 
he  said,  looking  up  into  the  other's  tAyitching  face,  "in  a 
very  little  while  we'll  be  rich — and  they"  (he  again  swept 
his  right  hand  with  a  large,  circular  gesture),  "and  they'll 
be  poor.  We'll  take  everything  else,  God  willing,  and 
leave  them  their  cursed  pride.     May  it  feed  them.    Amen." 

Robespierre  sat  down  again.     "Continue,"  he  said. 

"I  want  to  secure  my  subscribers.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  only  want  the  best  people." 

Robespierre  nodded. 


REVOLUTION  105 

"Let  them  rant  and  say  what  they  like,  you,  citizen, 
have  your  finger  and  thumb  on  the  artery  vein.  You  need 
only  press  here  and  press  there — with  the  help  of  the 
press,  of  course — and  your  victory  is  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion. Citizen,  I  take  the  liberty  of  admiring  you  im- 
mensely." 

Robespierre  chuckled.     "What  impertinence!"  he  said. 

"It's  what  you  want.  It's  what  we  all  want.  Your 
sanctimonious,  mealy-mouthed  courtiers  wouldn't  be  worth 
a  grain  o'  salt,  let  alone  a  bag  o'  gold." 

"A  bag  o'  gold.?" 

"Exactly.  And  a  pretty  stiff  one,  too.  Nothing  under 
two  hundred  pieces."  Tallien  rose  and  laid  his  hand  on 
the  great  man's  shoulder.  "Whereupon  I'm  your  prop- 
<erty,  body,  soul  and  honor." 

"I  haven't  the  money." 

*'My  contributors  will  have  the  use  of  a  popular  organ 
to  air  their  complaints,  their  prejudices — enfin,  their  am- 
bitions. The  paper  will  circulate  in  the  classes  the  honor- 
able deputy"  (Tallien  inclined  his  head  ever  so  slightly) 
"desires  to  reach.  Believe  me,  the  written  word  has  a 
stronger  attraction  for  the  unlettered  classes  than  the 
most  brilliant  flow  of  oratory.  They'll  master  a  word  of 
print — say  a  flaring  headline — with  difficulty,  and  it'E 
sink  deep  into  their  elementary  souls." 

"I  haven't  the  money." 

"My  policy  is  your  policy.  My  child  your  child — a 
little  pathos  is  such  a  help.  I'll  give  tears  a  good  place." 
He  glanced  out  of  the  window.  "Presently  we'll  see  a  red 
glow  in  the  sky.  *A  red  sky  at  night  is  the  shepherd's 
delight.'  You're  a  shepherd.  As  a  humble  instrument 
I'll  stand  by  you." 

Robespierre  detached  a  bunch  of  keys  from  his  waist- 
coat pocket.     He  unlocked  and  opened  a  drawer. 

"I'll  bring  round  the  first  proofs  to-morrow  at  eight 
sharp." 

Robespierre  banged  to  the  drawer.  "I  haven't  the 
money,  I  tell  you,"  he  said  huskily. 


106  TORCHLIGHT 

"Good-moniing,  monsieur,  I  regret  infinitely  that  I 
have  trespassed  on  monsieur's  valuable  time." 

Tallien  had  reached  the  door  before  a  heavy  thud 
stopped  him. 

Robespierre,  with  protiniding  eyes  and  a  \'iolently  work- 
ing throat,  had  twisted  round  in  his  chair  and  flung  a  bag 
'of  gold  pieces   on  the  floor. 

"Take  it,"  he  said,  "and  be  gone!     To-morrow  at  ten." 

Tallien  stooped  and,  with  a  good-natured  smile,  he 
picked  up  the  money,  opened  the  cord,  looked  inside,  and 
weighed  it  carefully  in  his  hand  before  slipping  it  into  the 
breast-pocket  of  his  green  tail-coat. 

For  one  instant  his  eyes  measured  his  fellow-conspira- 
tor. "We  mustn't  waste  time,"  he  said,  cheerily,  "I'll 
•come  at  eight.     I  can  wait.     I  can  always  wait." 

Very  gently  he  opened  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
He  left  pandemonium  behind  him.  It  was  rarely  Citoyen 
Robespierre  lost  control  of  his  feelings,  but  when  he  did, 
he  left  nothing  to  the  imagination.  How  he  walked,  nay, 
how  he  skipped,  how  he  hopped,  how  he  danced  up  and 
down  his  dingy  parlor,  a  prey  to  ungovernable  excite- 
ment !  His  face  was  drawn  into  a  thousand  fantastic  lines. 
He  snapped  liis  fingers;  he  chuckled;  he  laughed;  he  sang: 

The  queen  is  in  her  dairy. 
The  king  is  in  his  forge. 
The  queen  is  making  butter. 
The  king  a  master-key. 


CHAPTER    XV 

OCTOBER,  after  a  preliminary  deluge  of  sleet  and 
torrential  rain,  had  settled  into  the  bleak  rawness  of 
early  winter.  The  autumnal  leaves  flew  fast  in  Paris. 
No  less  fast  than  the  "written  word."  Tallien  could  glory 
in  the  success  of  his  production  (even  Terezia  blushed  as 
she  scanned  a  secreted  copy).  No  lady  demeaned  herself 
in  those  days  by  reading  radical  organs.  The  Cardilacs, 
good  honest  folk,  would  have  been  justly  horrified  if  they 
had  known  that  some  few  yards  from  their  savory  pot 
of  morning  coffee  fluttered  one  of  these  abhorred  sheets 
in  the  hands  of  an  honored  guest. 

To  please  Claire,  whom  they  adored,  the  Cardilacs  ac- 
cepted her  friend.  They  never  asked  questions.  Truth  to 
tell,  when  she  pleased  Terezia  could  bear  herself  with  be- 
coming modesty  and  chann.  She  looked  very  innocent, 
when  her  arms  circled  her  "dear  Claire"  before  dear 
Claire's  exceptional  parents.  Sometimes  in  the  privacy 
of  her  room,  to  her  maid  Christina,  Terezia  would  ease  her 
stifled  feelings  by  using  naughty  language.  "Was  there 
ever  such  a  pair  of  old  fools  as  the  Cardilacs !"  she  would 
laugh. 

In  those  days  Terezia  reveled  in  the  high  wind  of  love 
and  courtship.  Scandalous  stories  about  her  would  have 
been  popular  reading  in  Paris  if  they  hadn't  been  eclipsed 
by  the  threatening  storm  of  revolution. 

Secretly,  greatly  enjoying  the  huge  joke,  Robespierre, 
Tallien,  Fenelon  and  company  blew  the  bellows.  When 
the  fire  of  hate  showed  some  slight  deA^ation,  some  faint 
abatement,  these  gentlemen  worked  as  galley  slaves  to 
avert  "disaster." 

They  looked  at  the  dripping  skies;  they  scanned  the 
faces  of  anxious  women,  infuriated  women,  mad  women;  of 

107 


108  TORCHLIGHT 

men  born  to  obey  (after  a  fashion)  ;  of  youths  drifting 
into  the  whirlpool;  and  away,  far  above  them,  in  some 
starry  splendor,  they  saw  the  ancien  regime,  represented 
hy  the  disdainful  aristocrats  who  hitherto  had  held  undis- 
puted sway  in  the  good  land  of  France.  Looking  up, 
dogs  howl. 

Terezia  followed  Tallien's  career  with  unprecedented 
interest.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  was  superstitious. 
She  had  always  laughed  at  "silly  fables"  —  yet  she 
respected  what  she  didn't  understand.  Terezia  never 
respected  Tallien,  Are  we  to  conclude  that  she  understood 
him? 

Claire  looked  pale  in  these  dark  autumn  days  when  the 
wind  whistled  over  the  thinning  trees  of  Paris.  She  went 
often  to  Mass.  Sometimes  she  would  induce  the  lazy  Tere- 
zia to  accompany  her.  "Prayers  are  so  comforting,"  said 
Claire. 

With  her  head  devoutly  bent  over  her  rosary,  Terezia 
would  yawn. 

One  fine  day  "she  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer."  With 
a  great  show  of  unwillingness  and  really  unselfish  behavior 
she  said  she  must  return  home  to  look  after  "her  great 
big  tyrant." 

"You  are  an  angel,"  said  Claire. 

"I  am  sure  I  am,"  answered  the  unquenchable  Terezia, 
when  seated  in  her  traveling  carriage.  "Christina,  have 
you  my  jewel-box  safe?  The  rabble  may  rob  us,  remem- 
ber. I  have  taken  a  bag  full  of  buns  to  fling  at  the  lead- 
ers. Isn't  it  a  joke?  Good-by,  angel.  Take  care  of 
yourself.  My  deep  respects  to  madame  your  mother.  A 
thousand  grateful  thanks,  M.  Cardilac,  I  have  so  enjoyed 
my  visit,"  and  away  she  galloped.  Terezia  never  did  any- 
thing quietly. 

She  didn't  go  home ;  she  spent  a  rather  disgraceful 
•week-end ;  she  reveled  in  love  and  kisses  and  grew  beautiful 
as  the  morning  sun.  Christina  played  propriety.  Poor 
Christina — as  her  mistress  grew  more  physically  perfect 
in  these  bacchantic  orgies,  she  no  less  visibly  aged.     It 


REVOLUTION  109 

sickened  her  heart  to  see  the  waste  of  things.  Instead  of 
upbraiding  Terezia  and  calling  her  a  very  plain  name 
(which  Terezia  would  have  suffered  with  a  child's  blank 
stare)  she  rounded  on  the  unfortunate  Devin.  If  he 
hadn't  been  such  a  woebegone  husband  he  would  not  have 
had  such  a  woebegone  wife !  What  was  the  matter  with 
the  world?  asked  Christina. 

The  months  leaped  ahead.  The  Royal  Family  of 
France  had  to  face  another  j^ear  of  indecision,  much  in- 
sult, some  little  gladness — every  now  and  again  an  echo 
from  the  outside  world  to  fill  the  queen  with  pride.  Aus- 
tria would  help  her,  Prussia  was  arming.  England  was 
coming  forward — blessed,  blessed  news ! 

The  putrid  "rags"  doubled  and  trebled  their  circula- 
tion ;  they  fluttered  all  over  France.  Young  Tallien  was 
coining  money.  He  was  head  over  ears  in  plots  and  coun- 
terplots foiled  by  one  man's  inability  to  die. 

The  talk  of  the  hour  was  Mirabeau's  lion  courage  and 
extraordinary  vitality.  Everyone  knew  him  by  sight,  the 
disease-riddled  face,  the  flaming  eyes,  the  ridiculous  nose. 
Men  doffed  their  hats  to  him  if  to  none  other.  At  that 
critical  moment  he  was  the  actual  ruler  of  demented 
France.  Terezia  had  quoted  to  the  sick  man  Desmoulins' 
mot,  as  proof  of  his  ready  wit:  "To  reach  sanity,  one 
must  wallow  in  madness."  (Terezia  was  never  word-per- 
fect in  her  quotations — she  could  remember  the  substance 
of  things  but  never  the  matter.) 

April  shone  gently  over  Paris.  Mirabeau,  in  spite  of 
his  fierce  desire  to  live,  had  to  give  up  the  struggle  and 
die  as  well  as  he  could.  He  managed  at  least  to  tide  over 
Fools'  Day.  On  April  the  second,  somewhere  about  eight 
in  the  morning,  "he  fell  asleep." 

To  a  man  who  has  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in 
ceaseless  toil,  incessant  struggle,  with  a  vision  of  terrible 
clearness,  can  death  have  a  sweeter  reading.? 

Terezia  came  to  town  for  the  funeral,  and  insisted  on 
her   husband   being   present.      "Everyone   will   be   there. 


110  TORCHLIGHT 

There  never  was  a  more  popular  death,"  she  said — "I  mean 
people  are  wild  with  sorrow,  from  the  king  down  to  the 
bottle-washer.  You  are  a  coward,  Devin !  Nobody  would 
dream  of  kilhng  you !  It  wouldn't  be  worth  the  exertion." 
Already  the  little  marquise,  in  the  radiancy  of  her  eigh- 
teen full-blown  years — she  looked  older  than  her  age ;  her 
full,  round  figure  might  well  have  passed  for  twenty  and 
more — was  instituting  legal  proceedings  against  Marquis 
Red-Pate — she  supposed  he  had  a  title  to  his  own  hair.'*  .  .  . 

When  Terezia  was  away,  amusing  herself,  Christina  was 
left  at  home  in  charge  of  the  baby — the  very  image  of  liis 
papa,  which  his  mamma  took  as  a  personal  affront.  Truth 
to  tell,  both  parents  took  a  very  perfunctory  interest  in 
little  Georges.  He  was  a  good-tempered  cliild  with  red 
cheeks,  the  paternal  hair,  and  round  blue  eyes.  He  was 
just  beginning  to  talk.  Christina  listened  to  him  with  the 
greatest  attention.  Terezia  would  be  mildly  amused  at 
her  infatuation.  The  bo}^  had  his  own  nurse,  of  course. 
He  didn't  care  a  snap  of  his  chubby  fingers  for  Marie,  the 
bailiff's  daughter — it  is  always  well  to  employ  your  own 
people.  Marie  was  a  strong-minded  young  woman  (who 
took  in  L'Ami  des  Cif07/ens).  Christina  loathed  her.  "I 
don't  care,"  said  Terezia,  when  her  faithful  old  nurse 
warned  her  against  haring  such  a  person  in  the  house. 
"They  are  all  alike.  Not  a  soul  opens  a  gate  for  me  any 
longer.     Life  is  too  short  to  worry  over  trifles." 

And  off  she'd  dash  into  Paris  or  to  Bois  Vert  or  Gros- 
Bois,  Chateau  d'Hyere,  or  anywhere  her  fancy  or  her  posi- 
tion led  her.  The  beautiful  cJmtelalne  of  Fontenay-des- 
Roses  was  popular.  She  was  "so  oraamental,"  they  said. 
*'So  good-tempered,"  said  another.  "So  amusing,"  said  a 
third.  Terezia  had  a  way  of  telling  wicked  little  stories, 
transparent  as  daylight  ...  it  was  the  fashion  to  play 
with  words,  morals,  religion,  royalty,  politics — such  a 
jumble! 

When  the  tangle  was  at  its  worst  Louis  recalled  M. 
Necker  from  Beme,  and  reinstated  him  as  his  financial 
adviser.     For  at  least  three  weeks  after  that  astute  gentle- 


REVOLUTION  111 

man's  acceptance  of  office  and  return  to  Paris,  the  queen 
ceased  packing  her  boxes,  ceased  to  weep  (in  secret)  and 
entered  briskly  into  the  details  of  butter-making,  varied 
by  dream-making,  joy-making  or  other  airy  fantasies. 
Necker  issued  new  bills — not  blue  but  green,  we  fancy — 
and  new  taxations.  The  people  continued  to  growl.  They 
were  still  hungry  and  very  unsatisfied.  Then  in  April,  as 
we've  said,  after  Fools'  Day,  Mirabeau  achieved  his  de- 
parture from  life  in  great  style.  His  death  was  eloquent. 
In  the  very  moment  of  dissolution,  when  his  speech  for- 
sook him,  with  appalling  courage  he  traced  certain  letters, 
on  a  sheet  of  paper  propped  up  in  front  of  him  by  his 
sister.  .   .  . 

In  the  merry  month  of  May  Terezia  came  to  town.  The 
queen  sang  in  her  parlor — M.  Necker  and  Madame  Necker 
entertained — and  the  people  of  Paris  had  determined  to 
have  their  king  in  their  midst.  In  fact,  a  great  body 
of  them  had  escorted  him  from  the  palace  of  Versailles 
to  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries.  They'd  taken  no  refusal. 
They  pinned  on  him  a  huge  tricolor  badge  and  they  drove 
him  in  front  of  them — much  as  a  sheep  to  the  slaughter* 
He  had  Avhite  horses  haraessed  to  his  top-heavy  coach — his- 
best  wig  on — the  queen  beside  him — a  silent,  proud  queen 
— and  the  royal  children  opposite,  in  pretty  white  dresses,, 
one  carrying  a  top,  the  other  nursing  a  doll.  They  chat- 
ted together.    .    .    . 

Terezia,  as  usual,  stayed  with  the  Cardilacs.  She'd 
come  to  say  good-by.  She'd  made  up  her  mind  to  spend 
the  early  summer  months  in  England.  England — they 
said — was  such  a  quiet  place.  In  fact,  heaps  of  her 
friends,  who  wanted  to  rest,  were  going  too.  She  hoped 
the  Cardilacs  would  join  her.  They  could  see  all  the 
London  sights  together,  before  going  on  to  Bath.  The 
waters  would  do  them  all  good. 

Claire  thought  it  a  splendid  idea.  She  was  anxious  to 
get  away.  Her  parents  didn't  look  well.  In  the  mean- 
while she  and  Terezia  spent  their  time  in  shopping,  in  con- 
fidential  chats    (Claire   was   officially   affianced   to   M.   le 


112  TORCHLIGHT 

cousin — and  it  was  the  merry  month  of  May)  ;  in  divers 
theatre  and  small  dinner-parties.  Big  dinners  were  out 
of  the  question — provisions  were  expensive  and  everyone's 
movements  erratic.  "Here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow," 
sang  Terezia,  idly  touching  her  friend's  harp  in  the  back 
drawing-room. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "how  untidy  everything  is !  Look 
at  that  plant,  it  is  unwatered.  And  your  mother's  work- 
basket  looks  as  if  the  cats  had  used  it  for  a  cradle." 

"We  are  packing,"  said  Claire. 

"When  I  run  away  I'll  run  neatly,"  said  Terezia. 

"Don't  say  that,  darling." 

"It's  the  truth.  We  are  all  behaving  like  cowards. 
There's  no  real  danger." 

"Everyone  says " 

"You  dear,  darling  donkey.  Come  here  and  I'll  kiss 
you.  I'm  rather  sorry  that  I  missed  Georges  Boisgaloup. 
How  was  he  looking?" 

"As  usual.     He  is  always  pleasant  and  kind." 

Terezia  sighed.  "There  are  some  things  a  woman 
won't  forgive.    No,  I'll  never  look  at  him  again." 

Claire  looked  up.     "He's  coming  to-morrow." 

*'You  receive  him.     I'll  go  upstairs." 

The  bell  rang. 

"There  he  is,"  said  Claire. 

"How  exciting!  Fly  downstairs,  and  tell  him  I'm  not 
at  home." 

Terezia  spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  fidgeting  round  the 
untidy  drawing-room — the  curtains  were  down — before 
Claire  returned,  looking  indignant. 

"Well?  What  did  he  say?  Wasn't  he  furious?  Surely 
he  gave  you  his  respectful  compliments  to  carry  upstairs 
to  your  obstinate  friend?" 

Terezia  danced  round  the  room  in  high  glee.  "Serves 
him  right,"  she  said.  "Did  he  bring  his  friend,  Lieuten- 
ant Bonaparte?" 

"No.     It  wasn't  Georges  at  all." 
'You   nasty,    deceiving   wretch!     And    I'm    dying   for 


^i^ 


REVOLUTION  113 

amusement.  Who  was  it?  Old  Ravoral?  Or  poor  dear 
Alexandre  de  Lameth?" 

"No,  a  big  vulgar  creature  whom  I've  never  set  eyes  on. 
He  sent  in  his  card  and  he  asked  to  see  you — on  business, 
he  said.  I  had  quite  a  difficulty  in  getting  rid  of  him.  In 
these  times  one  can't  be  too  careful  with  strangers." 

"What  was  his  name?"  asked  Terezia,  slowly. 

"Citizen  Jean  Lambert  Tallien.     Here's  his  card." 

Terezia  took  it.  "And  you  sent  him  away,"  she  said  in 
a  strangely  subdued  tone. 

"Naturally." 

"It's  fate.     When  are  we  to  meet  again?" 

"You  know  that  man?" 

Terezia  clasped  Claire's  hand  within  her  own.  *'He's  the 
greatest  friend  I've  got." 

"Terezia !     He  wasn't  a  gentleman." 

"What  a  calamity !  A  year — and  a  year — and  a  year. 
It's  three  years  since  we  met.  Three  long  eventful  years ! 
doesn't  time  crawl?  He's  got  the  patience  of  Job.  Fancy 
loving  a  woman  to  distraction  and  looking  her  up  once  a 
year!  Such  patience  deserves  a  prize.  .  .  .  What'll  he 
get?  What'll  we  get?  Claire,  don't  stare  at  me,  I'm  not 
mad !  I  never  was  saner  in  my  life.  Sooner  or  later  we 
all  touch  the  impossible.  For  heaven's  sake  don't  stare 
at  me,  but  get  a  jug  of  water  and  water  that  miserable 
plant!  Life's  precious.  Don't  you  realize  it? — precious, 
precious !" 

Nevertheless  Claire  continued  to  stare  at  her  friend 
with  astonishment.  She'd  never  seen  Terezia  so  wildly 
excited  before. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

'X^EREZIA  dressed  herself  thoughtfully.  She  consid- 
■'•  ered  gay  colors  were  out  of  season.  She  chose  a  sober 
dove-gray  gown  with  a  broad  black  satin  ribbon  round 
her  waist.  From  the  conservatory  she  ordered  a  bunch 
of  white  carnations — these  she  thrust  into  her  bosom ; 
a  string  of  pearls  round  her  bare  throat;  a  little  black 
hat  on  her  head  with  one  white  plume ;  it  was  a  becoming 
hat.  Terezia  smiled  at  herself  in  her  looking-glass — a 
faithful  friend.  Anyhow,  God  be  thanked,  these  strenuous 
"times  had  not  robbed  her  of  her  beauty.  Some  people 
under  adversity  lose  all  their  looks.  Terezia  could  remem- 
ber quite  twenty  women  to  prove  her  point.  What  was 
the   good  of  worrying? 

Drawing  on  her  pale-gray  gloves,  she  passed  into  the 
nursery.  Opposite  his  e\Tl-faced  nurse  little  Georges  was 
eating  bread  and  butter.     He  eyed  his  mamma  gravely. 

"Where  are  you  gomg  to?"  he  asked. 

"To  Paris,  my  httle  one." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  in  Paris?" 

"I  am  going  to  buy  you  a  toy." 

"May  I  have  a  rocking-horse?" 

"Much  too  big!  How  could  poor  little  mamma  carry  a 
rocking-horse?" 

"Well  then,  a  guillotine." 

"A   what?" 

"A  guillotine." 

"What  is  that?" 

"A  lovely  new  game.  You  chop  head  off,  so."  The 
little  boy  thumped  a  chubby  fist  on  the  nursery  table. 

The  evil-faced  nurse  smiled. 

For  the  first  time  Terezia  felt  unaccountably  frightened. 

114 


REVOLUTION  115 

On  her  return  from  Paris  she  would  dismiss  her  nurse. 
Christina  would  love  to  look  after  the  boy. 

Terezia  kissed  her  son  almost  affectionately.  "Good- 
by,  little  angel,"  she  said.  "Look  after  him,  Marie.  I 
will  be  back  probably  this  evening." 

The  woman  nodded.     "Very  well,"  she  said  sullenly. 

The  road  to  Paris  lay  deserted.  Never  had  the  Fonte- 
nay  carriage  passed  with  greater  ease  along  the  miserably 
inadequate  highway.  Nothing  hindered  the  citoyenne''s  en- 
trance into  the  town,  where,  to  all  appearances,  proper 
order  reigned. 

Terezia,  with  curiosity,  sharpened  by  this  new  dull  sen- 
sation of  fear,  looked  carefully  around  her.  The  shops 
were  all  open,  the  street  hawkers  cried  their  wares,  the 
newsboys  ran  their  errands  on  noiseless  bare  feet.  One 
of  them  flung  a  bill  at  Terezia's  feet.  It  was  an  announce- 
ment that  a  ball  would  take  place  to-morrow  evening  (at 
popular  prices)  at  a  well-known  Paris  house  of  entertain- 
ment.  ...  So  people  danced  in  Paris.'' 

Terezia's  quick  eyes  scanned  the  passers-by.  Everyone 
seemed  in  a  hurry.  At  most,  acquaintances  passed  each 
other  with  a  scant  nod,  a  quick  "good  morning,"  or  a 
quicker  glance.  .  .  .  There  came  a  party  of  young  peo- 
ple, gay  young  people ;  who,  as  they  glanced  at  the  Fonte- 
nay  carriage,  broke  into  still  louder  laughter.  A  hasty 
brush  dipped  in  some  dull  paint  had  obliterated  the  for- 
bidden cipher  and  coronet.  One  young  man  pointed  to 
the  dappled  grays ;  they  also  were  shorn  of  aristocratic 
distinction,  in  rude  harness — all  their  richly  emblazoned 
trappings  gone.  Terezia  had  taken  a  tender  Interest  in 
her  own  and  her  husband's  insignia  of  rank;  no,  she  had 
not  spared  the  coronets. 

The  group  of  young  people  dancing,  shouting,  singing, 
and  yet  withal  exhibiting  the  undeniable  grace  of  youth, 
passed  up  the  quiet  street;  Terezia  noticed  that  the  girls 
were  tricked  out  In  garlands,  and,  of  course,  the  inevitable 
tricolor  cockades. 


116  TORCHLIGHT 

She  noticed  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  a  young 
gentleman,  who  wore  in  his  button-hole  a  knot  of  white 
satin  ribbon.  She  had  half  a  mind  to  stop  the  carriage 
and  ask  him  what  this  novel  decoration  was  intended  to. 
convey.  He  of  the  white  knot,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  left,  swung  past  her  carriage  at  a  fine  martial  pace. 
Terezia  tapped  her  delicate  fingers  on  the  framework  of 
her  elegant  equipage.  Indeed  the  world  must  be  entirely 
mad  when  she  ceased  to  command  attention. 

They  clattered  past  the  Tuileries.  Towards  the  street 
all  the  palace  windows  were  shuttered.  No  doubt  their 
majesties  preferred  the  seclusion  of  the  garden  front.  A 
great  many  soldiers  paced  the  outer  courtyard;  no  heavy 
coaches  in  waiting.  Why,  at  Versailles  at  times  the  car- 
riages, two  deep,  had  extended  from  one  angle  of  the  huge 
building  to  another. 

There  had  always  been  arrivals  and  departures  at 
court ;  petitioners  desiring  royal  favors ;  those  who  had 
the  privilege  to  wait  on  royalty,  and  who  never  let  an 
opportunity  pass  to  show  their  respectful  homage ;  others 
whom  the  glitter  of  court  life  attracted  as  so  many  human 
bees  around  the  honey-pot ;  and  the  liveried  servants  of 
the  crown,  the  countless  satellites,  the  lesser  nobility  who 
bowed  to  the  greater — where  had  the  astonishing  crowd 
vanished  ? 

They  drove  down  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  the  shopping' 
centre  of  Paris.  There  was  a  frightful  conformity  in  the 
shop  windows.  Every  mortal  thing,  from  hats  to  cheese, 
sported  the  national  colors.  Terezia  with  a  yawn  leaned 
back  in  her  carriage  and  scanned  her  ivory  tablets. 

She  touched  the  cord  attached  to  the  coachman's  arm. 

Baptiste  pulled  up  his  horses  with  a  jerk.  A  woman 
pushing  a  barrow  of  vegetables  had  a  narrow  escape  of 
being  knocked  down.  She  voiced  popular  opinion  in  a 
flow  of  abusive  language.     A  little  crowd  gathered. 

"Drive  to  the  Three  Musketeers.  I  have  not  very  much 
lo  do.     The  horses  must  rest  if  I  return  home  this  eve- 


REVOLUTION  117 

ning."  Terezia  looked  at  her  little  jeweled  watch.  "Be 
quite  ready  at  six  o'clock." 

"Citojenne .?" 

Click  went  the  carriage  door,  and  the  citoyenne' s  dainti- 
ly-shod foot  touched  the  pavement. 

"Madame  is  walking!"  exclaimed  the  horrified  coach- 
man, in  his  astonishment  forgetting  the  new  regulations. 

The  crowd  hissed. 

"Yes,"  said  Terezia,  smoothly,  "I  have  business  in  this 
quarter.  I  can  always  take  a  hackney  coach."  She 
waved  her  hand.  "Go,"  she  said  impatiently,  "I  have  no 
more  orders  to  give  you." 

She  turned  and  tripped  away,  rather  well  pleased  with 
herself.  No  woman  of  quality  walked  the  streets  alone — 
it  was  highly  indecorous.  Nothing  mattered  in  times  of 
revolution.  Terezia  intended  finding  out  things.  She 
had  come  to  Paris  to  test  public  feeling.  Boxed  up  at  the 
Cardilacs'  she  might  just  as  well  have  stayed  at  home 
and  listened  to  Devin's  boring  prognostications.  Devin 
knew  less  than  nothing  of  the  political  situation — he  only 
repeated  "old  wives'  tales,"  tales  bordering  on  the  in- 
credible. What  nonsense  about  killing  the  aristocrats ! 
Why  the  whole  world  would  cry  shame  on  the  murderers. 

Secure  in  her  indomitable  right  to  live,  Terezia,  with 
scant  consideration  of  what  her  friends  might  say,  passed 
over  the  Place  du  Louvre  and  made  straight  towards  the 
Cafe  Royal. 

As  we  all  know,  It  has  a  charming  central  position  occu- 
pying a  corner  frontage  facing  the  Palais  Royal  and 
looking  up  towards  the  present  Avenue  de  I'Opera.  In 
Terezia's  time  the  neighborhood  was  still  a  labyrinth  of 
indifferent  streets. 

With  her  easy  swinging  movement  she  entered  the  estab- 
lishment.    A  waiter  came  forward  and  stared  at  her. 

She  smiled.  "It  Is  nicer  outside,  I  will  sit  here." 
She  chose  a  pretty  little  green  chair  beside  a  tiny  marble 
table,  one  of  many  on  the  pavement. 


118  TORCHLIGHT 

It  was  rather  a  slack  business  hour.  Except  for  two  or 
three  customers  Terezia  had  the  place  to  herself. 

She  ordered  coffee  and  cakes  and  the  Moniteur. 

The  white-aproned  man,  still  staring,  took  her  order. 
Then  he  went  to  the  proprietor. 

The  proprietor  shinigged  hjs  shoulders.  At  present 
people  were  not  so  particular,  he  said.  The  citoyenne  did 
no  hann  (  from  a  window  he  peeped  at  a  certain  little  black 
hat,  a  gorgeous  display  of  golden  hair  and  a  pretty  white 
feather) — on  the  contrary,  she  might  attract  custom. 

Terezia  sat  on  her  little  marble  table,  agreeably  engaged 
in  watching  the  passers-by.  She  knew  no  one.  How 
strange  that  in  the  course  of  a  year  or  so  society  should 
have  changed  beyond  recognition.  Bah!  Paris,  ruled  by 
the  commonalty,  was  no  better  than  a  provincial  town. 
Once  she  caught  sight  of  a  man  who  loved  her  verv  much — 
she  had  no  wish  to  be  discovered.  Under  cover  of  the 
Moniteur,  which  the  waiter  had  brought  her,  she  hid  her 
amused  face.  Poor  Adolf,  how  distracted  he  would  have 
been  to  know  what  he  had  missed !  She  was  not  exactly 
tired  of  Adolf,  but  his  star  was  unpropitious. 

Terezia  had  rarely  felt  so  elated.  She  was  doing  a 
brave  thing,  sitting  in  the  heart  of  Paris  utterly  unpro- 
tected. 

A  fat  man — probably  a  shopkeeper — with  a  leering 
hideous  face  turned  round  to  look  at  her  again.  Terezia's 
face  was  absolutely  unemotional. 

"The  citoyenne  is  too  prett}^  to  sit  alone,"  he  remarked, 
coming  foi-ward.  "May  I  have  the  pleasure.^"  He  in- 
dicated an  empty  seat  at  her  little  table. 

"Certainly,"  said  Terezia,  a  little  wearily,  "if  it  pleases 
the  citoyen." 

"You  are  a  stranger  to  Paris?"  he  asked. 

"I  arrived  this  mornino-." 

"I  have  lived  here  for  six  months,  six  glorious  months. 
We    can   be   proud    to-day,   we    citizens,    of   enlightened 
France." 


REVOLUTION  119 

*'I  am  afraid  I  am  very  ignorant."  Terezia  sighed,  and 
played  with  her  little  silver  coffee-spoon. 

He  spat   on  the  ground.      *'Gar^on — here,  a  cognac." 

The  dull-faced  waiter  very  promptly  sei-i'ed  the  fat  man. 
In  passing  Terezia  he  gave  her  a  knock.  Perhaps  it  was 
entirely  accidental. 

Her  cavalier  gave  the  toast  of  the  hour:  "Down  with 
ro^-alties,  down  with  aristocrats."  He  smiled  facetiously 
and  put  out  a  splay  hand,  none  too  well-kept.  "The 
beautiful  citoyenne  is  of  the  same  opinion. P" 

"Of  course.     The  aristocrats  have  grown  impossible." 

"Well  spoken,  my  dear.  Still  I  have  it  in  my  heart  to 
pity  them.  Before  we  hunted  them,  now  we  gather  them 
in,  keep  them  close,  very  close.  Every  time  citizen  of 
France  wishes  to  hug  a  little  aristocrat."  He  threaded 
his  splay  fingers  and  suddenly  pulled  his  hands  apart.  "A 
life  for  a  life.    You  read  your  holy  office,  mademoiselle.''" 

"Titles  are  out  of  place.  Are  we  not  friends.'^"  She 
smiled.  "Do  tell  me  what  is  actually  going  on  in  Paris. 
All  seems  so  quiet  and  so  orderly,  one  reads  of  no  partic- 
ular riots"  (she  rustled  her  paper),  "and  yet  the  air  is 
electric." 

"You  have  hit  the  truth.  Men  are  working  day  and 
night,  good,  brave  men,  men  whose  names  will  live  for 
ever — whom  our  children's  children  will  rise  and  bless" 
(what  with  the  cognac  and  his  own  emotions  the  fat  man 
grew  unctuously  sentimental) — he  grabbed  at  Terezia's 
hand. 

"Who  are  you,  my  pretty  one?" 

"A  woman  obviously  alone  and  in  need  of  protection." 

He  worked  his  tongue  round  his  mouth  as  if  chewing  a 
subtle  thought.  "I'll  tell  you  frankly  it  can't  be  done.  I 
have  got  the  devil  of  a  wife.  She  is  not  in  the  provinces, 
worse  luck." 

Terezia  raised  dangerously  imploring  eyes  to  heaven. 
"I  am  an  honest  woman,"  she  said  simply.  "Tell  me,  is 
Paris  safe  for  women  in  these  days.'"' 

"You  could  bed  in  a  thieves'  cabin  and  fear  no  harm, 


120  TORCHLIGHT 

provided  you  come  of  an  honorable  stock.  There  is  war 
to  the  knife  on  the  aristocrats"  (he  lowered  his  voice), 
"and  on  the  Royal  house." 

"I  have  heard,"  said  Terezia,  "that  the  deputies  are  not 
of  one  mind." 

"Nor  likely  to  be.     The  top  dog  wins." 

"Whom  do  you  favor.?" 

"Three." 

"Their  names.'*" 

"Robespierre,  a  fine  hard-working  patriot.  His  nose  is 
of  no  delicate  mechanism — he'll  stand  a  deal,  will  Robes- 
pierre. Ever  since  the  lamentable  death  of  Mirabeau  that 
young  man  has  come  forward,  rushed  forward,  impelled  by 
the  voiceless  soul  of  France.  Thirty-five  odd  millions  be- 
hind him." 

"Yes.?" 

"And  a  handful  of  enemies  to  vanquish.  Death  to  the 
aristocrats !     Gargon,  another  cognac." 

Overcome  by  patriotism,  the  fat  man  had  ceased  to  re- 
gard Terezia  as  a  possible  distraction.  His  eyes  took 
another  expression,  less  dangerous  to  herself  but  infinitely 
more  menacing  to  the  order  she  represented. 

Dully  Terezia  realized  that  Devin  had  touched  the  truth. 
These  people  would  stop  at  nothing.  She  realized  the 
hatred  behind  the  man's  words. 

"And  the  others.?"  she  said. 

"There  is  Marat." 

"I  have  heard  of  him." 

"And  Tallien " 

"I  have  heard  of  him." 

"There  is  a  man  for  you !  He  has  both  spirit  and  enter- 
prise.    He  is  a  born  financier." 

"Indeed?" 

"By  God's  grace,  yes  !  And  he  does  not  tax  the  people. 
The  noblesse  have  to  pay  through  their  noses.  Passports 
are  expensive  matters  nowadays.  They  come  to  him  cring- 
ing, paying  their  all."  (He  tapped  his  fleshy  hand  on 
the  little  marble  table.)     "The  public  repositories  are  get- 


REVOLUTION  121 

ting  over-crowded.  I  had  occasion  to  call  at  citoyen  Tal- 
lien's  private  office  last  week.  A  printing  office — hein!  A 
legal  bureau  of  Public  Safety — hein!  Fiddlesticks! — a 
jeweler's  shop,  an  establishment  of  genuine  antique  and 
costly  bric-a-brac.  There  they  lay,  the  spoils  of  the  Phil- 
istines, all  higgledy-piggledy  on  the  floor  and  shelf,  gleam- 
ing to  the  tune  of  millions — millions,  I  say !  France  will 
benefit " 

" And  Tallien !" 

"Ha !  ha !  But  you  are  perfectly  right,  my  beauty. 
Why,  the  fellow  is  an  arch-thief." 

"But  a  good  patriot." 

"None  better,  his  zeal  is  famous.     They  say " 

"Yes?" 

"It  is  a  secret." 

"No  matter." 

"I  wouldn't  care  to  risk  my  neck,  not  even  to  please  you, 
my  pretty  one.      (To  the  devil  with  Angelique!)" 

"Just  for  once." 

"You  could  turn  any  man's  head.  I  have  heard  it 
emphatically  stated  tha,t  no  more  aristocrats  are  to  lea^  e 
France " 

"And  a  good  business  too " 

"That  is,  as  soon  as  the  matter  can  be  properly  legal- 
ized, the  whole  lot  of  'em  get  tucked  in  prison,  snugly  put 
away,  with  no  respect  for  either  age  or  person.  The 
whole  blessed   lot." 

"Then  you  must  first  build  your  cages.  Why,  the 
prisons  are  far  too  small  for  such  a  select  company." 

"Gently,  gently.  There  is  an  idea  of  easing  his  majes- 
ty's prisons.  Fellowship  they  say  gives  room — up  to  a 
certain  point ;  you  cannot  ask  impossibilities  of  God  or 
man." 

Terezia  sighed. 

"Are  you  going  to  kill  the  poor  creatures?"  she  asked  a 
little  doubtfully. 

"You  are  a  clever  little  woman.  That  is  exactly  what 
we  intend  doing." 


122  TORCHLIGHT 

**Have  they  any  definite  plans?" 

"They  don't  speak  of  them.  No  definite  plan  is  spoken 
of  until  it  has  actually  taken  place." 

"I  understand." 

"So  much  I  can  tell  you.     Look  out  for  next  year." 

Terezia  laughed.  "Mon  Dieu,"  she  said  cheerfully,  "not 
before  next  year.?    Why,  that  gives  them  breathing  space." 

She  rose. 

"Don't  go." 

"I  must,"  she  said.  "As  it  is,  my  patronne  will  scold  me 
severely.     It  is  wrong  to  gossip  during  business  hours." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

Terezia  smiled  very  sweetly.  She  opened  her  little  bag 
and  extracted  a  blank  visiting-card.  "Has  the  citoyen  a 
pencil?" 

He  handed  her  one. 

She  bent  over  the  little  table  and  wrote  in  a  very  clear 
writing,  "Marthe  Brun,  10,  Rue  de  Babylone."  "A  troi- 
sieme,  citoyem.  If  you  ask  for  Marthe  the  milliner  you 
will  be  sure  to  find  me." 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"You  will  look  me  up?"  she  said. 

He  stumbled  to  his  feet.  He  made  some  remark,  prob- 
ably to  the  effect  that  the  citoyenne  could  be  assured  of 
his  future  interest  in  her  welfare.  The  citoyenne  in  the 
meanwhile  had  disappeared  in  the  crowd  and  vanished 
from  his  slightly  hazy  view. 

The  fat  man  clutched  at  the  little  marble  table,  and,  with 
protruding  eyes,  he  stared  at  the  bit  of  pasteboard  lying 
before  him. 


CHAPTER    XVn 

WITH  a  rapidly-beating  heart  Terezia  threaded  her 
way  through  the  unsavory  streets.  She  walked 
quickly,  possessed  by  the  horrible  idea  that  if  she  didn't 
put  an  appreciable  distance  between  herself  and  "that 
awful  vampire"  the  said  vampire  would  track  her  down 
and  maybe  there  and  then  drink  his  fill  of  aristocratic 
blood. 

Terezia  had  long  ago  forgotten  that  it  might  be  a  moot 
question  if  dear  papa's  lineage  and  dear  mamma's  ancestry 
were  of  such  high  degree.  She  made  open  fun  of  the  Fonte- 
nay  family  annals,  but  she  looked  upon  her  own  birth  as 
unimpeachable.  Now,  hastening  through  the  familiar 
streets,  she  felt  her  heart  burn  at  the  insult  offered  to  her 
class  and  sex. 

In  her  hurry  she  collided  with  a  gentleman.  He  raised 
his  hat  and  benignly  asked  madame's  pardon.  He  looked 
a  sober,  kind-hearted  old  fellow.  A  lawyer  probably?  A 
doctor  maybe?  Anyhow,  an  honest  citizen  of  dishonest, 
pandemonic  Paris. 

In  the  Rue  de  Clichy  Terezia  paused  in  her  headlong 
flight.  She  looked  around  rather  doubtfully,  flushed  and 
much  too  beautiful  to  walk  alone.  And  yet  she  did  not  at- 
tract undue  attention.  No  one  apparently  had  time  to 
follow  her  or  to  speculate  on  her  errand. 

Terezia  found  herself  outside  a  coach-builder's  premises. 
The  stock-in-trade  lay  about  in  the  dim  yard  beyond;  a 
wheel  over  the  signboard  gave  to  all  and  sundry  the  dis- 
tinguished information  that  Sullivan  et  Cie.,  purveyors  to 
the  court,  also  accepted  orders  from  less  distinguished 
patrons. 

She  suddenly  remembered  the  paucity  of  the  hamess- 

123 


124  TORCHLIGHT 

room  at  Fontenaj.  She  really  couldn't  any  longer  drive 
about  with  those  wretched  farm  traces. 

She  mounted  the  steps  and  opened  the  shop  door. 

An  elderly  man  in  a  leather  apron,  drilling  holes  in  a 
stout  pair  of  reins,  looked  up  indifferently. 

"Good  morning,  citoyenTie,"  he  said,  going  on  with  his 
work. 

"May  I  sit  down?  I'm  so  tired."  Terezia  placed  a 
bundle  of  whips  on  the  floor  and  took  possession  of  the 
only  seat  in  the  shop,  a  three-legged  stool.  "It  is  warm 
to-day,  and  I  am  doing  my  shopping  on  foot,  to  save  my 
horses."  She  fanned  herself  with  her  handkerchief.  A 
faint  breath  of  lilac  broke  through  the  stench  of  oil  and 
seasoned  leather. 

The  man  continued  his  work.  "The  master  is  out,"  he 
volunteered  at  length. 

"Can  you  take  my  orders.'"' 

"I  might"  (surlily). 

*'Then  get  up  properly  and  listen  to  me !" 

"Eh?" 

He  opened  big  eyes  and  smiled.  "The  citoyerme  is  in  a 
hurry.  It  is  quite  a  phase  of  the  day.  All  our  customers 
are  in  a  hurry.     Never  had  a  busier  season." 

"No  doubt  your  master  is  gratified." 

"Eh.?" 

Terezia  beat  her  little,  daintily-shod  foot  on  the  saw- 
dust floor.     "I  can  go  elsewhere,"  she  said,  angrily. 

"If  it  is  a  carriage  you  want,  we  can't  book  another 
order  until  next  year." 

"I  have  fifteen  carriages  at  home." 

He  opened  his  eyes.     "Ma  foil  a  ci-devant  aristocrat?" 

"Don't  be  rude.  I  am  as  good  a  patriot  as  you  any  day, 
my  man.  I  want  you  to  make  me  as  soon  as  possible  a 
plain  set  of  double  harness.  WTiat's  the  idea,  I  wonder? 
Extravagance,  I   call  it " 

"That  proves  it "  he  interrupted. 

"Proves  what?" 

"You  are  an  aristocrat." 


REVOLUTION  125 

**What  else  could  I  possibly  be?  Have  you  no  eyes  in 
your  head?  Monsieur,  there  are  aristocrats  and  aristo- 
crats. The  good  people  of  France  have  no  reason  to  dis- 
like the  name  of  Fontenay." 

"I've  heard  of  the  name,  ma  foil" 

Terezia  smiled.  "I  am  rather  famous,"  she  admitted 
modestly. 

The  man  flung  the  reins  over  the  counter,  and  fetched 
the  order-book,  looking  shai'ply  at  his  customer. 

"How  much  do  you  want  to  pay?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  care." 

"Fifty,  sixty,  three  hundred  francs?"  ; 

"I  don't  care." 

"Good  leather  runs  into  a  deal  of  money," 

*'The  best  quality,  please." 

The  man  booked  the  order.  "To  be  paid  on  delivery 
this  day  month,  at  the  Chateau  de  Fontenay.  Good  morn- 
ing, citoyenneJ'^     He  turned  briskly  away. 

"Oh !"  gasped  Terezia.  "I've  never  in  all  my  life  paid 
ready  money.  Is  that  also  a  new  regulation?  Dear  Robes- 
pierre must  have  very  little  to  do." 

"Many  people  run  away  nowadays  without  paying 
at  all." 

Terezia  deposited  two  one-hundred-franc  bills  on  the 
counter.  "On  account,"  she  said  loftily.  "Give  me  a 
receipt." 

"Eh !  but  you  are  a  quick  one !" 

"When  it  pleases  me,  citizen."     She  smiled. 

The  coachbuilder's  assistant  signed  the  receipt.  He  was 
a  strong,  burly  man,  with  a  humorous  twinkle  in  his  eyes» 

Terezia  wandered  leisurely  across  the  shop  and  looked 
out  of  the  back  door;  it  opened  on  to  the  yard.  Under 
a  rough  shed  stood  a  monster  coach,  brand-new,  extremely 
effective  and,  no  doubt,  extremely  heavy. 

"That's  a  handsome  carriage,"  she  remarked,  pleasantly, 
**and  quite  a  new  model.    What  do  you  call  it?" 

"A  berline." 

"Who's  ordered  it?" 


126  TORCHLIGHT 

"A  Baroness  Korff.'* 

"Don't  know  her." 

"I  think  the  family  is  German,  or  maj4>e  Scandina- 
yian 

Terezia  pricked  up  her  ears.  "How  interesting,"  she 
said.     "Can  I  look  at  it  closer.''" 

"Why  not?" 

He  followed  her  across  the  yard  and  gallantly  assisted 
her  into  the  coach.  (Terezia  had  a  mighty  power  over 
men!)  "Enter,  madame,"  he  said  politely,  "and  feel  for 
yourself  the  luxury  of  the  upholstery.  Why,  a  queen 
couldn't  want  a  better  carriage,  let  alone  a  baroness." 

Terezia  settled  herself  on  the  front  seat,  and  declared 
that  it  was  a  dream.  "But  it  is  a  heavy  carriage  all  the 
same,"  she  added,  "and  I  rather  pity  the  poor  post- 
horses." 

"Ten  good  horses  and  two  or  three  crack  postilions, 
and  she'll  dance  out  of  France  in  a  jiffy." 

Terezia  laughed.  "Really  it  does  you  all  credit.  Look 
what  capacious  pockets,  and  here  is  a  place  for  a  carafe. 
And  four  footstools — why  so  many.'"' 

"She  doesn't  travel  alone." 

*'No,  no,  I  suppose  she  doesn't.  Well,  anyhow,  she  is 
a  fortunate  lady." 

Terezia  clambered  out  of  the  heavy  carriage.  She  had 
quite  forgotten  her  fatigue.  For  the  moment  she  was 
genuinely  jealous  of  Baroness  de  Korff's  fine  conveyance. 
She  wouldn't  have  minded  it  herself,  nor  "dancing  out  of 
Paris  in  a  jiffy."     Paris  was  a  horribly  iniquitous  hole. 

Terezia  put  her  little  lilac-scented  handkerchief  to  her 
nose.  "I  hope  your  client  doesn't  mind  the  smell  of  fresh 
paint,"  she  said. 

"That'll  pass  off.  The  gentleman  is  in  no  hurry  to 
have  his  order  delivered.  We  are  keeping  the  carriage 
until  required." 

"Gentleman?"  inquired  Terezia. 

"The  most  insufferable  gentleman,  ma'am." 

"How  so.?" 


KEVOLUTION  127 

"Tastes  differ,  I  know.  Personally  I've  never  stom- 
ached pretty  feathered  cocks  of  foreign  extraction,  pra- 
ting this,  prating  that.  There  is  nothing  so  wearisome 
as  a  man  with  nothing  to  do  except  to  offer  good  advice.'* 

"Indeed,  you  are  right,"  said  Terezia,  thinking  how 
aptly  this  applied  to  Devin.  "It  makes  them  so  quarrel- 
some and  interfering." 

"Just  so — in  and  out  of  the  workshop  at  all  hours  of 
the  day,  arguing,  directing,  insisting." 

"I  wonder  who  she  is?" 

The  man  swung  a  huge  key  on  his  finger,  which  he  had 
taken  from  the  coach-house  door.  "The  same  idea  has 
struck  me,"  he  said. 

"You  have  made  no  inquiries.''" 

"No." 

"Nor  your  master?" 

"Why  should  he?  He  has  been  handsomely  paid.  It 
is  no  business  of  ours."  He  looked  at  her  with  his  merry 
twinkle.  "Don't  you  be  building  mares'  nests  out  of  a 
plain  carriage." 

Terezia  liked  the  look  of  this  honest  craftsman.  He 
had  splendid  muscles,  and,  more  than  that,  splendidly 
broad  principles.  She  returned  slowly  into  the  shop, 
which  struck  cold  and  damp  after  the  sunny  courtyard. 
Terezia  shivered  .  .  .  surely  he  wouldn't  wish  to  kill 
aristocrats?  She  wanted  to  put  the  question  to  him, 
but  she  thought  it  wiser  to  refrain.  A  pleasant,  humor- 
ous smile  may  hide  unknown  depths  of  villainy. 

"Good-by,  and  thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  tripping 
out  of  the  shop  door.  In  a  minute  she  was  back  again, 
asking  rather  breathlessly,  "Where  am  I?" 

"Eh?" 

The  man  had  resumed  his  work.  "In  the  Rue  de  Clichy, 
No.  27 — where  else?" 

"I  have  lost  my  way,"  she  explained  pathetically. 

"You'll  find  it  again.  Turn  to  the  right  and  you  are 
sure  to  find  it.  You  couldn't  miss  it."  He  followed  her 
to  the  door. 


128  TORCHLIGHT 

*'Thank  you,"  said  Terezia,  rather  doubtfully,. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  the  same  benign  old  gentleman 
she  had  noticed  on  leaving  the  Cafe  Royal,  came  leisurely 
up  the  street.     He  carried  a  bag  in  his  hand. 

*'Who  is  that?"  she  asked,  on  a  sudden  impulse,  point- 
ing towards  the  leisurely  citizen.  *'I  know  his  face. 
jWhere  can  I  have  seen  it.^*" 

''That's  more  than  I  can  answer,  citoi/enne.  As  it 
happens,  however,  he's  one  of  the  customers.  A  Doctor 
Guillotin.    An  inventor,  and  a  kind,  clever  man,  they  say." 

"He  looks  very  kind,'*  said  Terezia,  thoughtfully. 
Where  had  she  heard  that  name?  Then  she  smiled.  Her 
nerves  were  playing  her  stupid  pranks !  What  an  odd 
coincidence!  Dear  little  Georges  had  asked  her  to  bring 
him  a  toy  with  some  such  name.  Who  knows?  the  good 
doctor  might  have  invented  the  very  game! 

**Au  revoir,"  she  said.  "You'll  let  me  have  the  harness 
las  soon  as  possible?" 

She  walked  slowly  towards  the  river,  searching  for  a 
hackney  cab.  She  felt  very  hungry  and  tired.  In  her 
deepest  dejection  her  good  star  gleamed  in  a  leaden  sky. 
Whom  should  she  sight  again  but  Adolf!  He  was  a  long 
way  off,  but  this  time-  she  ran  after  liim. 

"Adolf!"  she  cried.     "Adolf!" 

And,  as  the  gods  rarely  give  half-measure,  the  young 
man  heard  her  voice,  above  the  medley  of  traffic  and  his 
own  grave  thoughts,  and  promptly  turned  round.  Te- 
rezia felt  like  a  shipwrecked  mariner  who  suddenly  feels 
land  under  his  feet.  She  caught  hold  of  her  lover's  arm, 
and  before  he  could  ask  a  single  question  she  told  him  she 
was  famished,  and  that  after  a  good  lunch  she  would  be 
quite  ready  to  hear  all  he  had  to  tell  her. 

"Darling "  he  began. 

"I  know — but  first  of  all  an  omelette,  a  casserole  of 
thicken,  a  glass  of  Burgundy,  a  dish  of  st-ewed  pears " 

«Ter&ia!" 

*'Adolf,  I  love  you,"  she  murmured. 


REVOLUTION  129 

He  hailed  a  passing  cab.  "Jump  in,"  he  said.  "What 
is  the  meaning  of  it  all?'*  he  asked. 

She  didn't  directly  answer  his  question,  but  instead  she 
laid  her  tired  head  on  his  shoulder.  "Hold  me  tight," 
she  murmured.  "Yes,  one  kiss — just  one  to  make  me  feel 
alive.  I  have  been  so  desperately  frightened.  I  have  had 
a  dreadful  adventure.  .   .   ." 

He  smoothed  her  hair;  he  kissed  her  flower  mouth;  he 
called  her  every  imaginable  endearing  term.  Neither 
realized  the  musty  fustiness  of  the  jolting  cab,  or  that 
the  driver  kept  continually  turning  round  in  his  seat  and 
staring  in,  through  the  cracked  window,  at  his  amorous 
fare.  Nothing  mattered  (to  Terezia)  but  food  and 
love.  .  .   . 

As  to  her  lover,  he  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  ro- 
mantic delight.     What  a  windfall  1 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

THE  days  slipped  past  very  quickly.  Terezia  was  quite 
surprised  when  Monsieur  de  Fontenay  solemnly  pre- 
sented her  with  a  big  bouquet  of  roses  and  his  con- 
gratulations. 

She  was  stiU  in  bed.  The  window  curtains  were  thrown 
back  and  the  bright  June  sunshine  flooded  her  pretty 
room.  The  coloring  was  so  delicate — gray,  pink,  white 
and  discreet  gilding.  A  choice  crayon  drawing  by  Wat- 
teau — in  an  oval  frame — faced  her.  It  represented  a  very 
pretty  woman,  yet  not  so  pretty  as  Terezia  .  .  .  she 
knew  it  herself.  From  the  open  window  she  could  see  a 
handful  of  fresh  green  trees — and  an  acre  or  two  of 
blue,  blue  sky. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

*'Your  birthday,  madame." 

He  placed  the  roses  on  her  counterpane — such  a  beauty 
— lace,  ribbons,  and  needlework — and  a  discreet  salute 
on  her  outstretched  hand. 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured. 

So  .  .  .  she  was  eighteen — getting  quite  old! 

Shock-headed  Devin  had  been  quite  on  his  good  behavior 
lately.  He'd  treated  her  with  great  deference — only  about 
once  a  week  did  he  call  her  any  names  worth  mentioning. 
He  took  her  protracted  absences  in  Paris  very  good-na- 
turedly. Her  little  peccadilloes  he  put  down  to  youth.  If 
at  seventeen  you  can't  amuse  yourself,  when  is  to  be  done? 
He'd  come  to  the  just  conclusion.  He  himself  not  being 
seventeen,  but  a  distressingly  old  thirty  (he  looked  forty), 
he  kept  prudently  at  home. 

He  said  he  had  all  the  amusement  he  wanted  looking 

130 


REVOLUTION  131 

after  the  pigs.  He'd  lately  invested  in  fine  Yorkshire 
stock.  Terezia  very  kindly  refrained  from  being  sar- 
castic. The  whole  world  knew  it  wasn't  pigs  but  fright 
which  kept  him  boxed  at  Fontenay-des-Roses.  He  was 
afraid  to  meet  liis  own  bailiff,  they  said.  He'd  run  any 
distance  to  escape  Robespierre.  He  didn't  want  to  in- 
criminate himself  with  any  party.  He  heroically  refrained 
from  airing  his  royahst  sympathies.  Such  a  great,  well- 
born man  would  naturally  uphold  the  interests  of  the 
crown.  He  didn't  mind  meeting  the  Bishop  of  Autun, 
Monseigneur  de  Talleyrand,  a  deputy — and  enormously 
proud  of  the  fact.  (He'd  done  penance  and  talked  piously 
to  gain  his  seat.  He  wasn't  a  bit  pious,  reall}'.  Quite 
the  contrary.  The  ladies  loved  him.  Men  didn't  like  liim.) 
Well,  Dcvin  suffered  the  bishop.  He  was  equally  gracious 
to  another  of  his  Avife's  friends,  de  Ravoral.  De  Ravoral 
would  frequently  drop  down  on  the  couple  (always  ascer- 
taining beforehand  if  she  was  at  home)  and  bring  them 
all  the  news  of  the  day.  He  invariably  left  the  master 
of  the  house  shaken,  and  more  inclined  than  ever  to  the 
proper  breeding  of  pigs.  "Nuff — nuff — nuff!"  They  at 
least  were  harmless  animals,  and  a  good  investment.  Lit- 
tle Devin  had  a  true  tradesman's  eye  on  the  profits.  His 
chief  complaint  against  Terezia  was  her  extravagance. 
On  the  whole  he  took  her  lovers  laconically.  "If  at  seven- 
teen you  don't  amuse  yourself,  when  are  you  to  do  it?" 

Yet  he  respected  the  convenances.  Wasn't  it  punctili- 
ously courteous  of  him  to  bring  her  an  offering  of  flowers 
on  the  fifteenth  of  June?  Truth  to  tell,  he'd  got  hold  of 
a  wrong  date — but  that  didn't  matter.  Terezia  wanted 
a  June  birthday.  Who  wants  to  be  born  in  the  sere  and 
yellow  leaf?  It  is  quite  a  bad  omen.  Devin  was  horribly 
superstitious.  He  was  (so  said  his  wife)  horrible  in  many 
ways.     However,  the  flowers  were  quite  pretty. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  again.  "I'm  getting  up  pres- 
ently, and  then  you  shall  take  me  for  a  walk.  We'll  take 
the  boy  with  us." 

"I  shall  be  charmed,"  he  said. 


132  TORCHLIGHT 

So,  you  see,  between  storms  they  enjoyed  moments  of 
peaceful  family  life. 

Peace  wasn't  the  order  of  the  day.  In  hot  Paris — 
they'd  had  quite  a  heat  wave — Deputy  Robespierre  and 
Redacteur  Tallien  were  disputing. 

Tallien  worked  tremendously.  There  never  was  a  more 
painstaking  young  man,  and  with  it  all  he  maintained  a 
breezy  optimism.  On  the  darkest,  wettest  day  he  always 
saw  a  beneficent,  radiant  sun,  getting  up  right,  as  it  were, 
behind  the  inky  clouds,  for  his  sole  benefit.  Such  a  sight 
would  naturally  be  conducive  to  good-humor. 

It  quite  annoyed  him  to  find  his  friend  (they  hated  each 
other  like  poison),  citot/en  Robespierre,  on  such  a  glorious 
day  in  the  dumps.  There  he  would  sit  on  his  office  stool 
like  a  monkey,  black  as  a  thunder-cloud,  peevish,  irritable, 
suspicious,  in  spite  of  his,  Tallien's  brilliant  flow  of  talk. 

Robespierre  would  lean  his  hot  head  on  his  left  hand, 
elbow  on  table,  and  focus  his  adAaser.  From  a  rational 
point  of  view  he  was  utterly  wrong — yet,  maybe,  by  a 
whim  of  chance  superlatively  right? 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Tallien,  sprawling  on  his  chair — in  a 
new  summer  suit,  pale  violet,  we  fancy,  with  a  pale-blue 
silk  collar — "I  tell  you,  we  couldn't  have  arranged  it 
better  ourselves.  For  once  in  their  lives  the  dear  pets 
have  behaved  cleverly ;  'mazing  clever," 

"We're  not  out  of  the  wood." 

Tallien  nodded,  fanning  his  heated  face  with  Ms  yel- 
low gloves.     "The  very  place  on  a  summer's  day." 

The  sound  of  gay  young  voices  in  the  street  below 
broke  in  upon  his  reflections.  He  looked  out  of  the  dim 
window — Robespierre's  rooms  were  incredibly  dirty.  The 
sight  of  youth  and  innocence  always  gave  him  pleasure. 
From  the  window  he  glanced  pityingly  at  the  dyspeptic 
little  man  opposite  him  .  .  .  poor  devil,  no  woman  would 
ever  dream  her  heaven  on  his  breast.  .  .  . 

"If  I  had  the  time,"  said  TalHen,  "I'd  drive  out  to 
Fontenay-des-Roses." 


REVOLUTION  133 

"So,"  snarled  the  other,  "you've  patched  up  an  ac- 
quaintance?" 

"I  don't  approve  of  patches,  sir ;  it's  against  my  meth- 
ods entirely."  He  stroked  a  fold  of  his  brand-new  sum- 
mer coat.     "Either  all  or  nothing." 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  with  disconcerting  suddenness. 
"It'U  be  all— aU— aU!"  he  said. 

"Keep  your  dirty " 

"Nonsense,  man  alive !  D'you  think  I've  the  time  to  go 
love-making?  I've  never  even  tried — except  once — to 
meet  the  lady.  I  can  wait,  I  can  always  wait.  I'm  think- 
ing of  our  birds,  our  pretty  little  human  birds,  fluttering 
in  the  woods — away.  We'll  catch  'em  on  the  rebound 
.  .  .  such  good  copy.  In  point  of  fact"  (he  tapped  his 
breast-pocket),  "I've  got  it  all  written  up.  A  stirring 
article,  citoyeii,  a  verj"  notable  article,  full  of  human  dis- 
gust at  human  folly,  and  worse,  human  selfishness.  Think 
of  flying  away,  trying  to  fly  away — from  Duty!  Isn't 
duty  our  conscience,  our  God,  our  constitution,  with  the 
gracious  king  at  its  head?  he,  ha,  ha!" 

Tallien's  laugh  was  as  sudden  and  loud  as  the  boom  of 
a  fog-horn.     It  almost  startled  Robespierre. 

"Have  you  got  your  facts?"  he  said. 

*'Facts  and  fancies,  sir."    He  tapped  the  paper  he  held. 

"I  never  believe  in  gossip." 

"But  you  believe  in  yourself?" 

"Wniat's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Rather  more  than  you  imagine." 

Robespierre  held  out  his  clammy  hand — it  was  an  ob- 
jectionable hand — none  too  clean.     "Let  me  look  at  it." 

"Presently,  sir,  presently,"  he  said,  vastly  pleased  with 
himself.  "I  may  post  into  Varennes  and  drink  a  glass  of 
wine  at  the  Golden  Arms.  The  landlord  is  rather  a  pal 
of  mine,  an  excellent  fellow  and  a  good  patriot.  It  would 
encourage  him  if  I  showed  some  interest  in  the  crops — 
the  coming  harvest  ought,  by  all  reports,  to  be  of  prime 
quality." 

Robespierre  watched  the   younger  man  prance,   as  if 


134.  TORCHLIGHT 

practising  a  dance  measure,  as  he  uttered  these  quaint 
absurdities.  He  looked  full  of  life,  this  long-nosed  indi- 
vidual ;  his  big  mouth  was  wreathed  in  smiles ;  his  broad, 
etrong  teeth  declaring  agreeable  things  about  his  diges- 
tion. Again  green-eyed  envy  oppressed  the  Public  Ac- 
cuser. It  would  have  given  him  immortal  pleasure  to 
squash  the  exuberance  of  this  robust  young  man. 

"I  confess  you  put  it  very  aptly,"  said  Robespierre, 
evidently  referring  to  some  earlier  matter  under  dis- 
cussion. 

"The  bait,  the  trap  and  the  dear  little  mice,"  said 
TalHen,  still  capering.  "Why,  it  is  of  exquisite  simplicity, 
and  between  ourselves  and  the  post,  not  without  a  touch 
of  humor." 

"How  so?"  (irritably). 

"They  little  know  that  they  are  playing  into  our 
hands." 

"Spies  never  yet  collected  in  one  camp." 

*'Yes,  but,  of  course — they  are  all  eyes,  all  ears — all 
tongues !" 

"You  take  it,  citizen,  with  unreasonable  levity." 

"Not  at  all."  Tallien's  long  limbs  grew  rigidly  stiff. 
*'At  heart  I  am  desperate  at  the  very  idea  of  failure. 
Look  you,  we  have  all  the  pawns  in  the  game.  What  are 
their  effective  allies?  A  handful  of  faithful  guards — say 
a  score  or  so  of  loyal  gentlemen,  any  number  of  indiscreet 
women  (women  don't  count),  this  very  enterprising  Swede 
— who  may  jeopardize  his  head;  uncommon  foolish  meth- 
ods, a  talking  and  a  buzzing  to  start  a  mole  winking, 
much  more  a  patriot  of  Robespierre's  penetration — I  tell 
you,  their  poor  little  battalion,  all  told,  is  of  no  more 
consequence  than  the  dauphin's  tin  soldiers.  I  can  throw 
them  over  with  a  sweep  of  my  hand.  I  will  throw  them 
over — (we'll  arrange  that  later).  Good  lord,  man!  can't 
you  see  that  in  their  flight  the  king  saves  his  country 
alive!  All  we  want  to  win  oar  game  is  a  startling  or  a 
cowardly  action  on  his  part." 


REVOLUTION  135 

Rigid  he  stood  as  he  spoke,  facing  the  other's  grudging 
approval. 

Tallien  passed  his  big  hand  over  his  sleek  black  hair. 
*'Given  so  much — in  justice  they  must  take  their  share  in 
the  business — my  faith!  we  will  spare  them  the  details  of 
the  return  journey.  We'll  crowd  our  canvas  with  large 
colors,  and  give  his  majesty  a  national  welcome.  That 
part  of  the  program  belongs  to  us,  and  we'd  be  asses  if 
we  didn't  profit  by  so  notable  an  occasion.  The  streets 
of  Paris  shall  be  lined  with  an  appreciative  audience. 
We'll  collect  together  the  riff-raff,  the  goodly  backbone 
of  our  new  France.  It'll  be  a  sight  for  the  gods  to  behold, 
and  a  milestone  in  the  history  of  our  country.  No  ban- 
ners, no  music,  no  military  ceremonial,  the  people  shall 
by  their  silence  give  solemn  welcome  to  their — ruler.  It 
will  be  a  tremendous  day,  tremendous !"  He  leaped  in  the 
air  and  bawled  in  his  excitement. 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  his  eloquence.  Robes- 
pierre composed  his  features — all  agape  at  this  fiery  out- 
burst— and  Tallien,  red-cheeked,  seated  himself  at  his 
desk.  He  dipped  his  quill  in  the  large  inkpot.  "Come 
in,"  he  said  sharply. 

The  door  opened  cautiously  to  admit  ci-devant  Comte 
<3e  Ravoral,  looking  exactly  himself — bald  pate,  careful 
clothes,  exquisite  manner. 

"I  fear  I  am  disturbing  a  conference,"  he  said.  "Let 
me  plead  guilty  at  once,  with  a  thousand  apologies  for 
such  indiscretion." 

Tallien  grunted.  He  did  not  like  the  ci-devant  count. 
He  had  never  liked  him  since  he  had  had  the  honor  of 
reading  his  villainous  proofs. 

Robespierre  had  only  a  casual  acquaintance  with  this 
derelict  of  Louis  XV.'s  court.  He  remembered  he  had 
met  him  at  the  Fontenays'. 

"Whatever  the  citizen's  business  may  be,"  he  said 
suavely,  "we  regret  that  to-day  it  is  quite  impossible  to 
give  the  matter  our  attention.     It  is  late " 

"Never  too  late  to  oblige  a  lady,"  interrupted  Ravoral, 


136  TORCHLIGHT 

advancing  on  the  tips  of  his  polished  boots  towards  Tal- 
lien.  "Here  is  a  surety  of  better  things  to  come.  A  spring 
message  to  the  Messenger  of  Hope."  As  he  spoke  he 
laid  under  Tallien's  nose  a  dainty  basket  massed  with 
dewy  violets,  and  tied  with  white  satin  ribbons. 

"I  am  greatly  obliged,"  said  Tallien,  sniffing  the  offer- 
ing. "My  modesty  forbids  me  to  guess  who  has  thus 
honored  me." 

Robespierre,  behind  his  colleague's  back,  gurgled  his 
disapproval.  Tallien  was  fish  enough  to  swallow  any 
bait !     What  conceit ! 

And  bland  he  looked,  this  tall  son  of  the  people  smiling 
at  the  bluest  blood  of  France.  He  had  not  enough  polish 
to  get  up  and  offer  the  count  a  seat.  He  didn't  appear 
to  notice  that  his  visitor,  bending  forward  and  fingering 
the  violets,  was  standing* 

Ravoral  inhaled  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  over  Tallien's 
long  back  and  sloping  shoulders  (no,  Tallien  wasn't  a  well- 
built  man),  and,  in  the  very  discreetest  of  whispers  he 
managed  to  convey  to  him  that  the  modest  gift  concealed 
yet  another  offering  of  love. 
.  "Thanks,"  said  Tallien. 

"No  matter,"  said, Ravoral,  loudly,  stepping  back  and 
waving  his  delicate  fingers  in  a  deprecating  manner.  "How- 
ever, to  please  the  most  charming  woman  in  Paris,  just 
place  her  flowers  in  water.  And  then  I'll  fly.  At  what 
hour  can  I  return?" 

"Settle  the  man,"  signaled  Robespierre. 

"How  can  I  serve  you?"  asked  Tallien,  rising. 

"I  am  outside  the  matter,  dear  sir.  The  lady — by  the 
way,  her  card  is  attached  to  the  basket." 

Tallien  searched  for  the  card,  Ravoral  in  the  meanwhile 
engaging  Robespierre  in  conversation,  and  managing  with 
his  attenuated  figure  to  screen  the  editor. 

The  card  was  quickly  located,  lying  on  the  top  of  a 
small  jewel-box,  faded  and  old. — Tallien  with  great  greed 
raised  the  lid  and  discovered  a  string  of  beautiful  pearls. 

".    .    .  Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand.     I  assure  the 


REVOLUTION  137 

deputy  these  figures  were  given  me  as  representing  the 
crowd  gathered  on  the  Champ  de  Mars.  A  wonderful  and 
inspiring  sight.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand!"  The 
old  man  emphasized  his  point. 

Tallien,  secretly  laughing  at  Ravoral's  adroitness, 
slipped  the  handsome  bribe  into  his  pocket.  It  was  a 
valuable  necklace. 

"Here  is  the  card,"  he  said  pleasantly.  He  looked  at  it. 
*'H'm !  how  can  I  serve  the  ci-devant  Marquise  de  Longue- 
ville?" 

"She  has  been  ordered  by  her  doctor  to  take  the  waters 
at  Bath." 

"Quite  a  fashionable  resort." 

"It  seems  there  is  a  difficulty  in  getting  passports.  I 
took  upon  myself  the  liberty  of  troubling  the  citizen  on 
the  matter.     The  lady  is  in  delicate  health." 

"We  miglit  oblige  the  lad}^"  said  Tallien  good- 
naturedly.  "You  are  quite  right,  we  have  been  obliged 
to  limit  our  passports — troublesome  times  in  France — 
and  also  to  enforce  very  strict  regulations.  However, 
there  is  an  exception  to  every  rule."  (He  signaled  to 
Robespierre  a  reassuring  message.) 

Robespierre  coughed.  "I  am  very  willing  to  grant  the 
lady  permission  to  stay — at  Bath." 

"Exactly.  A  chamiing  health  resort  in  the  south  of 
England.     Do  you  know  England?" 

"Only  by  hearsay." 

"A  delightful  country,  though  the  inns  baffle  descrip- 
tion." 

Tallien  rustled  a  large  sheet  of  parchment,  and  sat 
down  at  his  writing-table,  dipped  his  quill  in  the  ink-horn 
and  wrote  w4th  his  usual  rapidity.  "That  is  all  right," 
he  said,  turning  round  and  looking  at  Robespierre.  "All 
I  want  is  your  signature,  if  you  would  kindly  give  yourself 
the  trouble.     Here  beneath  mine." 

Robespierre  took  hold  of  a  pen.  Tallien  laughed  good- 
naturedly.  "No,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "red  ink,  if  you 
please;  it  is  so  much  more  effectual." 


138  TORCHLIGHT 

Robespierre  smiled  and  wrote  his  sprawling  signature 
beneath  Tallien's   (equally  sprawling). 

Tallien  blotted  the  document. 

De  Ravoral  thanked  them  profusely. 

Tallien  rolled  the  document  and  tied  it  with  a  piece  of 
green  silk,  attached  to  two  splashing  seals. 

"At  your  service,  citizen,"  he  said,  handing  the  roll  to 
Ravoral. 

Ravoral  again  expressed  his  deep  sense  of  gratitude. 
He  went  towards  the  door.  "Dear  little  violets,"  he  said, 
en  passant.  "Emblem  of  good  fortune.  Good-evening, 
gentlemen." 


Old  Ravoral  ran  almost  jauntily  down  the  steep  stairs 
and  into  his  waiting  cab. 

"Home,"  he  said. 

And  up  his  own  stairs  this  gay  old  bird  leaped  like  a 
schoolboy.  He  used  his  latchkey  with  precaution.  Once 
in  the  privacy  of  his  library  he  added  to  his  precaution 
by  turning  the  key  in  the  door.  Then  he  unrolled  the 
precious  passport — the  face  value  five  francs  seventy-five 
centimes,  plus  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  plus 
a  basket  of  delicious-  violets. 

He  read  it  over  carefully ;  he  read  it  again — a  true  and 
honorable  document  giving  to  the  citoyenne  Longueville 
and  her  family,  seven  persons  all  told,  a  free  pass  from  the 
territories  of  France. 

Ravoral,  as  it  was  getting  dark,  lit  all  his  available 
candles  and  one  snuffing  old  oil  lamp.  He  also  drew  down 
his  blinds. 

With  infinite  pains  he  wrote  a  facsimile  of  the  two  sig- 
natures very  boldly  inscribed  in  red  ink.  Like  a  good  boy 
he  repeated  his  copy  until  perfect. 

Then,  like  a  neat  boy,  he  very  carefully  erased  the 
sprawling  redness  of  Robespierre's  and  Tallien's  brack- 
eted names.  And  (with  some  natural  trepidation)  he 
dipped  the  formidable  signatures  Tas  it  were)  into  the 
dye-pot. 


REVOLUTION  13^ 

Presently  with  satisfaction  he  glanced  at  Madame  de 
Longueville's  passport.  "That  is  their  little  game,"  he 
said,  "is  it?  Well,  my  dear  lady,  I  have  done  the  best 
for  you,  humanly  speaking,  that  I  can.  The  rest  we  must 
leave  to  Providence." 

On  this  old  Ravoral  tidied  his  bureau,  blew  out  his 
lights,  rolled  up  his  paper,  readjusted  the  green  ribbon, 
unlocked  his  door,  slipped  into  his  great-coat,  and  landed 
at  Madame  de  Longueville's  house  just  in  time  for  supper. 

He  was  received  with  acclamation  and  some  tears. 

Never  once  did  the  bald-headed  nobleman  allude  to  ink, 
red  or  black. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

'^J'EVER  had  leafy  June  been  more  exquisite  than  in  this 
-^^  year  of  grace  1791.  It  was  quite  a  pleasure  to  quit 
the  hot  precincts  of  Paris — the  sun-baked  pavements,  the 
scorching  squares,  the  little  breathless  side  streets  smelling 
not  of  aloes  and  myrrh;  a  rather  villainous  odor,  partic- 
ularly at  nightfall,  pervaded  these  mean  streets  where  the 
poor  housed  as  best  they  could. 

The  spirit  of  the  hour  didn't  allow  of  lightly  linked 
^friendships,  swiftly  made  and  quickly  broken.  The  danc- 
ing-halls in  Paris  stood  practically  empty;  even  the  Bois 
had  less  attraction  for  the  public  that  was  customary  at 
this  time  of  year — thirsty,  tired  citizens  e\'idently  quenched 
their  thirst  elsewhere.  Clubs  had  sprung  up  everywhere, 
and  were  immensely  popular;  In  every  grade  of  society 
men  frequented  more  or  less  dubious  assemblies,  where 
liberty  was  upheld  as  the  very  bed-rock  of  unrestricted 
citizenship;  amazing  how  bravery  of  sorts  flourished  in 
the  outposts  of  Paris. 

How  well  we  can  understand  the  call  of  the  country,  of 
the  leafy,  distant  glades,  where,  to  all  purposes,  pei-petual 
tranquillity  reigns,  perpetual  twilight,  cool  as  a  zephyr 
breeze  and  of  touching  purity.  No  law-abiding  citizen 
fails  to  appreciate  a  woodland  scene;  it  speaks  to  him  of 
the  peace  which  once  upon  a  time  dwelt  on  earth — proba- 
bly, if  he  thinks  the  matter  over,  when  Eve  yet  slept  in 
Adam's  rib. 

Even  her  majesty  the  Queen  of  France  dreamed,  when 
the  June  sunshine  flooded  the  royal  apartments,  of  a 
happy  day  in  the  country. 

By  the  arbitrary  law  of  the  people,  which  carried  more 
weight  than  St.  Louis'  golden  scroll,  she  and  the  king  had 
been  mewed  up  in  the  Tuileries  for  over  a  year.     So  zeal- 

140 


REVOLUTION  141 

ous  were  the  citizens  of  Paris  to  guard  the  royal  family 
that  they'd  refused  to  listen  to  reason,  or  to  the  laws  of 
health.  It  was  perilously  wearisome  at  the  palace.  Noth- 
ing of  interest  occurred  to  break  the  monotony  of  the 
daily  routine:  a  little  gossip,  a  few  card-parties ;  a  paucity 
of  scandal  and  much  talk  which  soared  entirely  above  their 
imagination.  Having  nothing  better  to  do,  it  seemed  the 
courtiers  exaggerated  public  affairs.  All  kinds  of  im- 
possible, wicked  stories  were,  under  the  plea  of  secrecy, 
retailed  to  their  majesties.  Sister  Elizabeth  was,  of 
course,  privy  to  each  confidence. 

Ever  since  Easter  the  queen  had  forbidden  gossip  in 
her  presence.  The  people  and  the  antics  of  the  people  did 
not  interest  her.  On  the  whole  the  people  had  behaved 
improperly. 

What  with  the  breath  of  radiant  summer,  the  wild  call 
of  the  woods,  the  glitter  of  marshland,  melting  into  the 
azure  sea — all  seen  in  the  perspective  of  a  wistful  mind — 
the  glamor  of  the  country  took  more  and  more  hold  of  the 
royal  family. 

There  were  secret  councils,  secret  smugglings,  secret 
orders,  secret  amusement — (Was  there  ever  such  an  ad- 
venture embarked  upon*  by  the  Crown  ? )  The  king  woke 
up  to  the  task  in  hand,  nodded  benign  consent,  laughed 
loudly  over  certain  articles  of  dress  and  took  much  pleas- 
ure (behind  locked  doors)  in  trying  on  a  very  new  set  of 
clothes.  How  he  dangled  the  round  hat,  which  completed 
a  delightful  costume,  with  boyish  delight!  "Eh  bien,  me 
voila,"  he  said,  popping  it  on  his  royal  wig.  Madame 
Elizabeth,  far  more  sensible  than  the  king,  was  for  ever 
cautioning  silence — his  majesty's  spirits  were  like  to  run 
away  with  his  prudence.  It  was  on  the  whole  a  matter  of 
relief  to  the  good  lady  when  "the  dear  man"  was  safe 
seated  at  his  writing  table,  glum  as  an  unbroken  thunder- 
cloud, pondering  his  correspondence.  Long  before  June 
broke  into  leaf  his  majesty  had  solemnly  promised  himself 
to  write  a  concise  and  explicatory  Letter.  The  Letter 
was  to  be  left  behind  him  when  the  party  went  a-frolicking» 


142  TORCHLIGHT 

Such  an  affair!  (whisper  it  not)  in  the  dead  of  night,  in 
unrecognizable  attire,  with  baggage  and  kind  friends, 
waiting-maids,  band-boxes,  gentlemen  whips,  brand-new 
conveyance,  borrowed  names  and  all  the  wit  they  could 
muster ! 

When  Marie  Antoinette  thought  of  this  prodigious  es- 
capade, now  in  the  making,  when  she  tried  on  strange 
garments,  practiced  stranger  manners,  tried  not  to  look 
herself  and  caught  sight  of  her  dignified  yet  strangely 
ageing  face  in  the  looking-glass,  the  enterprise  would  seem 
to  have  a  sinister  importance.  There  was  no  joke  behind 
the  grim  reality  of  it  all.  Blessed  children  of  France! 
(she  would  turn  and  kiss  them)  they  were  mercifully 
spared  the  revelation  of  the  looking-glass,  and  even  to  the 
anointed  king,  their  father,  some  good  angel  had  denied 
the  gift  of  penetration. 

We  can  take  it  for  granted  that  Marie- Antoinette  suf- 
fered the  most  from  the  restricted  air  of  Paris,  and  that 
the  king  was  more  deeply  annoyed  by  the  poor  comfort  of 
his  palace.  Small  matters  were  great  matters  to  liis  maj- 
esty— and  great  matters  hung  as  trifles  before  his  kindly 
eyes. 

What  followed  is  history.  We  all  know  how  the  royal 
flight  turned  out  a  dismal  failure ;  how  every  detail  wanted 
oiling,  above  all  clipping!  How  maddening  it  must  have 
been  to  the  Faithful  Few  to  watch  this  piling  of  effects ; 
this  grandiose  preparation  for  a  flight,  which  was  no  flight 
but  a  solemn  procession  into  the  ridiculous. 

It  is  history,  and  sad  history  at  that,  artifice  upon 
artifice.  The  snarers  waiting  for  the  overweighted  birds, 
and  the  poor  birds  fluttering  back  into  the  cage — almost 
as  eager  to  be  caught  as  to  gain  their  freedom.  The 
travesty  of  the  return;  the  church  bells  pealing;  the  mar- 
shaling of  crowds ;  the  grant  of  public  holiday ;  the  shut- 
tered shops  of  Paris.  And  far  and  wide  to  the  uttermost 
corners  of  France,  the  panting  couriers  riding  for  dear 
life,  carrying  the  fatal  tidings  of  a  king's  broken  faith. 

Yes,  as  Tallien  had  pleasantly  anticipated,  the  second 


REVOLUTION  143 

act  of  the  performance  was  infinitely  better  stage-man- 
aged than  the  first.  It  required  hard  work,  but  a  true 
patriot  does  not  spare  himself.  Tallien  had  worked  very 
hard  indeed,  and  by  some  impious  decree  of  luck  he'd 
touched  rock  in  a  quagmire  of  uncertainty. 

There  had  been  a  night  and  a  day  when,  sweating  agony 
beneath  an  indifferent  manner,  he  had  faced  the  odds  of  an 
enraged  populace.  It  requires  so  infinitely  little  to  shift 
the  uneasy  scales  of  popularity.  A  misplaced  gesture  and 
he,  Tallien,  felt  convinced  that  all  his  eloquence  would  not 
have  saved  his  neck.  So  (sweating  agony)  he  held  himself 
rigid.  He  was  as  utterly  neutral  as  an  unborn  babe.  In 
this  attitude  he  awaited  events. 

And  triumph  held  his  great  lips  in  an  enormous  smile. 
The  day  of  the  King's  Public  Disgrace,  Tallien  ran  around 
Paris — as  if  suspended  on  invisible  wires — all  animation — 
all-powerful — greatly  admired,  he  of  the  vast  energy  and 
patriotic  fervor. 

He  marshaled  the  willing  crowds;  he  joked  with  the 
little  women,  always  his  slaves,  the  work-girls  of  Paris ; 
he  gave  fatherly  counsel  to  white-bearded  men,  this  strap- 
ping, ambitious  fellow  not  yet  thirty. 

How  joyfully  he  breathed  the  impure  air  of  the  streets; 
how  often  he  glanced  towards  the  open  road — how  he  was 
the  very  first  to  spy  a  big  fly  crawling  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
presently  to  emerge  into  a  lumbering  conveyance  of  sorts 
(with  a  full  retinue  behind),  and  at  last,  in  front  of  his 
frank  impatience,  to  take  concrete  form  In  the  shape  of 
a  traveling-carriage,  of  dignified  dimensions,  harnessed  to 
creditably  fresh  horses,  and  led  by  shame-faced  postilions, 
containing  for  him,  Tallien,  the  salt  of  the  earth. 

His  loyalty  was  exuberant  at  that  moment.  He  almost 
doffed  his  hat  to  the  heated  visage  of  corpse-faced  mon- 
archy. 

No  muffled  beat  of  drum  or  sound  of  solemn  tocsin  was 
necessary  to  convince  Tallien  that  the  king  had  staked  his 
all — and  lost  his  all. 

He  slipped  from  his  place  in  the  stolid,  patient,  awe- 


IM  TORCHLIGHT 

struck  crowd — he  rushed  down  a  comparatively  empty 
side-street  to  a  new  coign  of  vantage.  He  was  granted  a 
brief  glimpse  of  the  queen's  face.  Her  face  told  him 
nothing;  her  eyes  were  downcast.  Slowly,  very  slowly, 
the  mournful  procession  passed  along  the  shuttered  streets 
of  Paris.  .  .  .  "Eh  bien,  me  voila,"  said  the  king,  reiter- 
ating his  stock  phrase — as  he  put  his  head  out  of  the 
window. 

Next  morning,  again,  the  little  breakfast  party  in  the 
royal  dining-room — the  same  old  battered  coffee-pot  on 
the  table  which  had  caused  the  king's  annoyance  the  day 
before  yesterday. 

The  sealed  Letter  had  been  removed  from  its  place;  by 
now  its  contents  were  familiar  to  a  million  minds.  Day 
and  night,  printing-presses  had  churned  out  copies  of  that 
incriminatingly  foolish  Letter,  "written  by  Our  Hand" 
and  we  may  add  composed  by  "Our  Mind."  Oh,  why, 
Marie-Antoinette,  in  the  hurry  of  flight,  why  hadn't  you 
paused  an  instant  to  snatch  that  damning  Letter  and 
commit  it  to  the  sacred  flames?  You  might  have  known 
your  man.  .    .    . 

In  one  of  the  dining-room  windows  at  the  Tuileries,  the 
dauphin  had  hung  his  bird-cage.  Presently,  the  king,  after 
eating  a  good  breakfast,  left  the  ladies  to  their  silence,  and 
presented  the  canaries  with  a  lump  of  sugar.  He  stood  a 
long  time  watching  their  cheerful  antics,  tapping  the  little 
cage  with  his  royal  fingers.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER   XX 

TV/fARQUIS  DE  FONTENAY  was  deeply  incensed  at 
^^*-  the  king's  ignoble  mistake.  His  majesty — it  seems 
— had  publicly  declared  that  the  royal  picnic  (or  what- 
ever he  called  it)  had  been  from  start  to  finish  a  mere 
frolic.  They'd  dressed  themselves  up  for  fun,  merely  to 
amuse  themselves  and  the  dauphin  and  Madame  Royale — 
she  a  pensive  little  girl  who  evidently  wanted  plenty  of 
amusement  before  she  laughed   .    .    .   had  she  laughed? 

Really  and  tinily  the  Marquis  Devin  had  no  patience 
with  the  whole  story.  He  glared  angrily  and  uncompre- 
hendingly  at  Mile,  de  Cardilac,  who,  a  fortnight  after  the 
said  escapade,  was  paying  a  visit  to  Fontenay — and  who 
had  no  better  breeding  than  to  sit  weeping — at  his  break- 
fast table,  over  "the  sad  affair." 

*'It  serves  them  right,"  said  De\an. 

Terezia  finished  her  plateful  of  strawberries  and  cream 
before  speaking.     "It  was  a  tragedy,"  she  said,  calmly. 

Devin  didn't  answer.  He  never  answered  his  wife,  if  he 
could  help  it.  He  got  up  instead  and  sauntered  away  to 
his  pigs.     "Nuff — nuff,"  they  grunted. 

He  stood  over  a  great  sow,  wallowing  in  the  mire,  and 
tickled  her  ears  with  his  walking-stick  .  .  .  how  he  pitied 
the  king,  and  how  he  would  have  envied  him  if  he'd  been 
successful.  No  man  envies  signal  misfortune.  His  posi- 
tion was  intolerable.  He  was  practically  a  prisoner  in  his 
palace,  under  the  watch  and  care  of  a  justly  incensed 
nation.  "Nuff — nuff,"  said  the  sow,  rolling  on  her  back 
in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

Yet  the  King's  Flight — very  feelingly  alluded  to  in 
UAmi  des  Citoyens — hadn't  been  without  its  notable  re- 
sults.    Something  had  to  be  done.     Out  of  much  misery 

145 


146  TORCHLIGHT 

there  sprang  a  glory.  The  papers  called  it  a  glory,  and 
much  else,  all  of  a  deliriously  joyful  character.  Terezia 
— when  she  heard  that  the  long-projected  idea  had  actually 
taken  substantial  form — was  delighted. 

"How  nice,"  she  said.  "Then  they  can't  fight  any  more. 
They've  got  what  they've  wanted — beasts — and  I'll  be 
able  to  look  forward  to  a  pleasant  season.  Last  winter 
there  were  no  balls  to  speak  of." 

De  Ravoral  stroked  his  chin  thoughtfully.  He  felt  for 
the  lovely  creature  at  his  feet.  It  was  a  lovely  September 
morning;  the  gardens  of  Fontenay  were  looking  their  best 
— so  was  the  marchioness,  in  a  belated  summer  hat 
wreathed  with  field  flowers,  and  a  transparent  barege 
dress,  patterned  with  blue,  sucking  a  straw  and  looking 
up  at  him,  full  of  delightful  wonder. 

It's  nice  to  be  an  oracle  at  any  age,  but  especially  so 
late  in  life.  Comte  de  Ravoral  would  be  the  last  man  not 
to  appreciate  the  blessings  left  to  him — he  could  easily 
number  them.  He  leaned  back  in  his  comfortable  garden 
chair,  mildly  grateful  to  his  valet  that  he'd  made  him  wear 
his  thick  boots.  At  eighteen  you  can,  probably,  without 
any  evil  consequences,  lie  full  length  on  the  September  turf 
— in  spite  of  a  transparent  dress  and  damp  grass,  but  at 
— well,  at  middle  age,  it's  best  to  be  prudent. 

De  Ravoral  had  never  been  so  prudent  in  all  his  life, 
though  he  was  habitually  prudent — living  on  his  tradi- 
tions, and  the  intimacy  of  celebrities.  If  he'd  had  St. 
Simon's  ability,  so  he  said,  he  would  have  had  great  pleas- 
ure in  writing  his  memoirs.  The  times  were  felicitous. 
St.  Simon's  records  were  prosy,  compared  to  what  his 
might  have  been.  At  the  present  moment  all  was  excite- 
ment and  unbounded  joy.  Personally,  he  preferred  joy 
in  a  more  guarded  form.  Let  loose,  it  can  so  easily  degen- 
erate into  vulgarity.  Vulgarity  was  the  sin  of  the  day, 
he  said.  That's  why  their  majesties,  for  fear  of  contami- 
nation, prudently  shut  themselves  up  in  their  palace.  The 
queen  very  seldom  went  abroad. 

Probably,  later,  she'd  be  obliged  to  attend  some  public 


REVOLUTION  147 

functions,  the  opera  and  so  on.  The  queen's  duty  was  to 
set  a  good  example  to  the  other  women — ladies  who,  in 
exactly  the  same  predicament  as  her  majesty,  were  obliged 
to  keep  in  Paris  against  their  wills.  A  most  odious  state 
of  affairs,  from  a  lady's  point  of  view.  Positively,  yes, 
positively,  no  fresh  passports  were  issued.  The  Cardilacs 
— like  herself — had  been  too  late.  Never  mind,  if  it  prom- 
ised to  be  a  good  season,  did  it  matter?  Surely  Paris  had 
the  right  to  enjoy  her  own  beauties?  "You  belong  to  us, 
madame,"  he  said,  "if  not  by  birth,  by  marriage.  I  felici- 
tate Paris." 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  hear  more  of 
the  situation." 

"So  you  shall,  dear  child." 

"It  is  all  so  thrilling,  if  it's  true." 

Terezia  took  hold  of  the  old  gentleman's  hand  and  held 
it  against  her  warm  cheek.  "I  won't  release  you,  until 
I'm  satisfied,"  she  said.     "Go  on." 

He  smiled,  and,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  he  explained 
(as  he  said)   the  inexplicable  business. 

All  France  was  washed  as  with  spring  dew,  all  France 
was  laughing,  shouting  gaily,  trembling  with  happy  emo- 
tion. The  people  had  gained  their  stubbornly-fought 
battle.  No  longer  need  they  pull  unevenly  under  the  heavy 
yoke  of  aristocracy  and  monarchy.  Look  you,  the  king 
had  given  his  country  a  free  Constitution.  The  old  As- 
sembly, working  under  restrictions,  had  melted  into  thin 
air,  vanished  as  a  spent  cloud  and,  in  its  place,  in  hot, 
perspiring,  giddily  joyful  Paris  a  new  and  august  Par- 
liament labored  for  the  good  of  the  State. 

Terezia  was  very  much  impressed.  De  Ravoral  with  his 
own  bloodshot  eyes  (bright  as  facets)  had  seen  this  in- 
spiring body  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  and  rustle  docu- 
ments white  as  virgin  snow.     "All  was  yet  to  be  written." 

So  said  the  bald-headed  nobleman,  following  his  fair 
hostess's  example  and  nibbling  at  a  dry  grass-stem. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  he  said,  "as  long  as  it  lasts." 

"To  break  a  Constitution  is  the  deed  of  a  maniac,"  said 


148  TORCHLIGHT 

Terezia;  "the  heinous  and  melancholy  crime  of  a  wealc, 
desperate  individual." 

Old  Ravoral  nodded  his  bald  pate. 

"Your  dress  is  charming,"  he  said.  "Whom  are  jou 
quoting?" 

Terezia  colored.  As  it  happened,  she  had  heard  Des- 
moulins  express  himself  in  some  such  words,  in  his  exqui- 
sitely graceful  manner.  His  hot  words  could  never  scorch 
from  the  very  coolness  of  their  utterance;  they  sometimes 
fanned  the  flames.  A  pity  his  genius  was  allowed  to 
languish. 

"I  judge  in  these  matters  by  my  own  con%action,"  she 
said  loftily. 

"A  very  pretty  dress,"  repeated  Ravoral,  taking  the 
straw  from  his  mouth  and  throwing  it  away.  "As  you 
say,  adaptability  is  a  science." 

She  had  never  said  anything  of  the  kind.  However,  it 
sounded  vaguely  clever,  so  she  agreed  to  it. 

"How  well  you  remember  my  words." 

"My  dear  lady,  I  keep  my  notes." 

Ravoral,  like  a  spoiled  child,  grew  tractable.  He  took 
the  privilege  of  his  class  and  age,  leaned  back  in  his  com- 
fortable garden  chair- and  closed  his  eyes.  No, — thought 
Terezia,  watching  him — he  didn't  look  handsome,  and  yes 
— he  did  look  ill. 

Everyone,  it  seemed,  looked  haggard  and  ill  in  spite  of 
the  glorious  Constitution. 

"Don't  go  to  sleep,"  began  Terezia.  "Have  you  heard 
from  the  Longuevilles  ?" 

Ravoral  kept  his  eyes  closed.  "It  is  ravishing,  this 
warmth  and  the  music  of  your  voice,"  he  muraiured. 
"Allow  me  the  luxury  of  blindness.  Yes,  I  have  heard 
of  their  safe  arrival  in  England.  Bath  seems  to  be  a  fash- 
ionable and  expensive  resort.  The  Longuevilles  remain  in 
Bloomsbury." 

"Where  is  that.?" 

"London." 

"Why  call  it  Bloomsbury?" 


REVOLUTION  149 


'A  thousand  pardons " 

'They  were  extremely  lucky.  Do  you  know  I  had 
friends  crossing  to  England  by  the  same  packet?" 

"Yes?" 

"At  an  enormous  sacrifice  they  had  bought  their  pass- 
ports  " 

Ravoral  nodded. 

"Can  you  believe  it?  they,  and  for  the  matter  of  that  all 
their  fellow-travelers,  were  refused  embarkation.  They 
cried,  they  swore,  they  showed  their  passports " 

Ravoral  nodded. 

"All  to  no  purpose.  The  officers  in  charge  said  that 
they  regretted  the  position  extremely  but,  technically, 
their  passports  failed  in  a  qualif3ang  point.  Something 
had  been  forgotten,  they  must  return  to  Paris.  Neither 
bribes  nor  sighs  made  the  brutes  relent.  They  are  a  pack 
of  wolves  at  Havre !" 

Terezia  raised  her  arms  to  heaven  with  a  very  graceful 
gesture — her  wide  sleeves  fell  apart,  disclosing  the  dimpled 
roundness  of  her  perfect  arras — all  lost  on  Ravoral.  He 
still  persisted  in  keeping  his  eyes  shut. 

"Strange,"  he  murmured. 

"Why  the  Longuevilles  ?  They  were,  so  it  seems,  treated 
to  distinguished  consideration ;  allowed  to  go  on  board  at 
once.  No  one  touched  their  luggage — they  might  have 
been  royalty " 

"Surely  not,"  murmured  Ravoral. 

Terezia  laughed.  "You  mean  that  royalty  have  no 
privileges  nowadays?  I  am  curious  to  know  why  those 
rather  uninteresting  people  should  have  been  favored.  Es- 
pecially  " 

"Yes?" 

"Desmoulins  told  me  himself  no  one  had  been  more  sur- 
prised than — who?     Guess.     Do  open  your  eyes." 

Ravoral  opened  them  suddenly,  very  wide, 

"How  could  I  possibly  guess?" 

"Robespierre  himself !" 

"I  congratulate  my  old  friends,"  said  Ravoral,  pleas- 


150  TORCHLIGHT 

antly,  "and,  between  ourselves,  I  think  they  had  a  lucky 
escape.  From  what  I  hear,  Bloomsbury  is  not  the  most 
attractive  spot  on  earth — but  I  hope  they'll  stay  there, 
and  that  their  boarding-house  will  keep  them.'* 

"Boarding-house !     The  Longuevilles  !'* 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "T^dthout  money  Bloomsbury  is  a 
very  dismal  hole,  of  no  attraction  whatsoever." 

"The  poor  things !  And  Madame  de  Longueville  who'd 
never  wear  anything  but  the  finest  batiste  and  real  lace 
next  her  skin !     Her  personal  linen  was  a  dream.'* 

*'May  the  dream  help  her  to  exist,'*  said  Ravoral  very 
piously.  "My  ship  is  all  of  mist ;  my  ship  is  all  of  dreams ; 
and  clouds  and  vapors  and  tears  and  sighs " 

"That's  pretty,"  said  Terezia.  "Whom  are  you  quot- 
ing?" 

"Myself." 

"Since  when  has  monsieur  turned  a  poet?" 

"Since  the  day  when  I  first  met  the  incomparable 
Terezia,  if  you  must  ferret  out  my  secret." 

Terezia  smiled,  well  pleased.  "Even  you,"  she  said 
gently. 

"Even  I,"  said  old  Ravoral.  "You  are  nineteen,  you 
tell  me?" 

"Only  eighteen." 

*'If  you  live,  imagine  the  record!" 

"Thank  you." 

She  rose  and  slipped  her  arm  affectionately  into  his. 

"Come,"  she  said.     "I  know  it  is  time  for  lunch." 

"Lunch !"  he  repeated  mournfully.  "Lunch !  You  are 
shockingly  prosaic.  Here  have  I  made  you  the  most  sol- 
emn declaration  of  a  full  life,  and  you  answer  me  by  refer- 
ring to  smoked  salmon  and  poached  eggs ;  lamb  cutlets  and 
late  peas,  followed  by  a  choice  of  quails  in  aspic,  or  cold 
ham '* 

"How  did  you  guess?" 

"I  never  guess.     I  always  make  inquiries." 

*'You  wicked  creature!  Spying  in  the  kitchen,  making 
love  to  the  cook " 


REVOLUTION  151 

"Two  francs  did  it,  and  a  smile.'* 

Terezia  looked  critically  at  Ravoral's  profile.  "Give  me 
a  smile,"  she  asked. 

"After  that  perfect  lunch,  darling,  I'll  be  happy  to 
grimace  as  a  monkey  if  it  pleases  you.'* 

"I  am  a  good  housekeeper,  am  I  not?" 

"In  a  sense,  a  very  good  sense." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Madame,  surely  I've  explained  enough  for  one  day? 
Some  things  are  better  taken  for  granted." 


CHAPTER    XXI 

"^TOT  before  the  following  December  had  Terezia  an 
-*-^  occasion  for  satisfying  her  curiosity,  and  seeing  for 
herself  how  the  queen  took  her  "misfortune." 

Everyone  agreed  that  she  was  unfortunate.  Some  even 
reiterated  the  old  Diamond  Necklace  scandal — in  fact 
Tallien  had  frequently  brought  it  into  his  copy — it  was 
always  useful,  with  new  embellishments,  to  fan  the  unre- 
luctant  fire  .  .  .  everyone  could  see  the  fire  was  burning 
well.  "I  don't  want  a  fire,"  said  Tallien  cheerily — he  was 
very  hopeful  in  those  days — "I  want  a  blaze !  A  top-hole 
blaze!"  (Only,  of  course  he  used  his  own  slang.)  In 
Redacteur — excuse  us,  in  Deputy  Tallien's  mind  (he'd 
got  his  seat — Robespierre  congratulated  him  warmly  and 
smiled  sicklily)  it  was  already  a  creditable  beginning.  En- 
caged royalty  at  one  end — and  trumpeting  patriotism  at 
the  other — could  you  ask  for  better?  Eh.'*  "I  can,"  said 
Robespierre.  Tallien  took  his  meaning  at  once.  He  shook 
him  warmly  by  the  hand,  absorbing,  as  it  were,  its  moist- 
ure into  his  own  broad  palm.  "So  do  I,"  he  said,  or  rather 
whispered — a  long-drawn  whisper,  accompanied  by  a 
searching  glance.  .  .  .  Robespierre  dropped  his  eyes.  It 
was  about  this  time  that  his  oculist  ordered  the  honorable 
deputy  a  pair  of  glasses — slightly  smoked — for  wearing 
out  o'  doors — "to  save  his  valuable  eyesight."  So  he  said. 
Tallien  knew  better.  "Bah,  they  don't  take  me  in!"  he 
said  to  sensitive  Desmoulins ;  "he's  really  afraid  to  meet 
the  glance  of  honest  men."  It  was  on  the  tip  of  Desmou- 
lin's  tongue  to  say,  "That  explains  your  intimacy."  How- 
ever, he  refrained.  To  be  witty  at  another  man's  expense 
is  often  uncommonly  dear  for  yourself.     The  times  were 

152 


REVOLUTION  153 

ruinous.  Bread  was  going  up,  and  every  kind  of  food; 
money  was  going  down — alarmingly.  Suave  M.  Necker 
and  madame  his  wife  and  madame  his  daughter  had  re- 
cently left  for  Switzerland,  on  a  "holiday,"  so  they  said. 
"When  was  he  coming  back?"  No  one  knew.  "Probably 
when  affairs  were  regulated,"  hazarded  a  wiseacre. 
"Puiff !"  whistled  a  pessimist,  "that  means  never."  Tallien 
was  of  a  different  opinion.  "Citizens,"  he  said  calmly, 
"I  see  light."  And  he  looked  up — as  if  the  light  he  saw 
was  entirely  heavenly.  We  rather  fancy  a  little  low- 
mannered  devil,  blowing  his  bellows  below,  squealed  iron- 
ically. Little  devils — we  are  sure — are  much  amused  when 
humans  behave  illogically.  Tallien  really  was  rather  a 
"delightful"  feUow.     His  breezy  good-nature  was  colossal! 

In  December  Terezia  secured  a  box  at  a  gala  representa- 
tion of  Beaumarchais'  Manage  cle  Figaro.  She  insisted  on 
Claire  joining  her  party.  She  wasn't  staying  with  her 
friends — in  spite  of  new  curtains  having  been  put  up  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  new  plants,  and  probably  a  new 
work-basket — or  at  least  a  fi'esh  outfit  of  haberdashery. 
The  Cardilacs  had  made  up  their  mind  to  stay  all  the 
winter  in  Paris.  Lots  of  their  friends  were  doing  the  same. 
What  was  the  good  of  journeying  to  the  frontier,  only 
to  be  turned  back  again?  Some  escaped  through  the  very 
teeth  of  vigilance.  Robespierre  swore.  Tallien  swore 
(cheerfully).  "There  are  still  a  good  many  left,"  said 
the  latter  gentleman,  with  one  of  his  broadest  smiles. 
"Later,  sir  (again  he  employed  a  whisper),  "we'll  further 
restrict  their  movements." 

Already  these  two  amiable  protectors  of  the  poor — 
Friends  of  Man — or  whatever  they  styled  themselves — 
had  hit  upon  a  satisfactory  plan  to  enforce  justice.  "We 
must  wait,"  said  Tallien,  piously.  "The  spring  will  bring 
her  own  counsel,  and  the  summer  will  ripen  it.  With  any 
luck,  my  dear  friend,  we'll  be  able  to  gather  much  autumn 
fruit.  In  the  meanwhile,  let's  prepare  the  soil.  It's  very 
congenial,  veri/  rich,  but  all  the  same  it  won't  be  the  worse 
for  a  little  turning  over.    I  have  brought  you  an  article, 


154  TORCHLIGHT 

my  best  of  friends.  ..."  At  times  Tallien  was  quite 
fulsome  in  his  address. 

Citoyen  Robespierre  couldn't  bear  him.  He  had  to  put 
up  with  a  good  many  things  in  those  days  that  he  didn't 
like.  Of  all  trials  is  there  anything  more  unbearable  than 
waiting,  and  fearing  that  your  precious  schemes  won't 
come  off  at  the  last?  .  .  .  There  were  too  many  fools, 
talking  in  the  Constitution,  and  outside  it  .    .    .  pouff ! — 

the  place  wanted  thinning.    By  Gr it  wanted  thinning ! 

Such  a  jabber  and  such  a  crowd!  On  his  oath  Robes- 
pierre didn't  know  who  he  disti-usted  most,  his  smug,  dig- 
nified majesty  or  a  little  retail  grocer  round  the  corner, 
who  was  full  of  sedition  and  craft.  If  he  could,  that  fool- 
ish grocer,  he'd  upset  Deputy  Robespierre's  administra- 
tion. .    .    . 

"Claire,  darling,  you've  just  got  to  come,"  said  Tere- 
zia.     "I'm  bringing  three  delightful  men." 

'*I  haven't  the  heart,  dear." 

Terezia  pinched  the  girl's  pale  cheeks.  "I'll  buy  you  a 
stick  of  rouge.  It's  so  plebeian  to  show  your  feelings.  I 
know  you  are  wretched  on  account  of  the  cousin.  I  tell 
you  he  is  safe." 

Claire  shook  her  head.     "It's  not  that,  dear." 

"When  did  you  hear  last  from  him?" 

"Six  months  ago," 

"Six  months  isn't  a  lifetime !  Germany  is  a  huge  place. 
Cheer  up.  You  never  see  me  depressed !  And  I've  every 
reason  to  be.  Devin  has  slaughtered  all  his  pigs — I  don't 
know  why — he  said  they  were  suspicious,  and  anyhow  he's 
horribly  cross.  Sits  all  day  and  looks  at  the  clock — as  if 
that  would  hurry  time !  When  you  are  in  a  hurry,  never 
look  at  the  clock.  You  don't  suppose  I  want  to  be  killed? 
I  don't  believe  in  it.  Devin  does.  I  wish  he'd  die  naturally 
and  properly.     He'd  spare  himself  so  much  trouble " 

Of  course  Claire  had  to  give  in — and  she  did  it  with  a 
good  grace,  too.  She  kissed  her  dear  Terezia — who  talked 
such  a  lot  of  nonsense — and  said  she'd  be  very  pleased 
to  come  to  the  play. 


REVOLUTION  155 

The  centre  of  interest  in  all  that  crowded  house  was  the 
royal  box.  Her  majesty's  appearance  aroused  discreet 
whispers.  How  tired  she  looked — how  sad  she  looked ;  yes, 
and  in  spite  of  royal  magnificence  (look  at  her  diamonds!) 
her  age  was  more  than  apparent,  nay,  grossly  cxagger^ 
ated — poor  queen !  The  loss  of  her  beauty  struck  Terezia 
as  the  most  flagrant  robbery  in  all  that  maelstrom  of 
greedy  grasping.  They  had  taken  her  liberty,  and  one 
foot  as  it  were  off  her  throne — they  might  have  spared  her 
her  beautiful  eyes,  her  beautiful  complexion,  her  happy, 
roguish  smile — the  smile  of  a  dairymaid  frotliing  her  milk- 
pails. 

Only  a  few  years  ago  Marie- Antoinette  had  stood  at  the 
zenith  of  her  imperial  charm.  Terezia  remembered  the  first 
glimpse  she  had  had  of  her,  and  how  she'd  been  over- 
whelmed with  a  desire  to  kiss  her  hand.  Terezia  was 
always  one  for  kisses.  (Kisses  signified  to  her  so  much 
and  so  little.)  Now,  in  spite  of  her  new  pink  velvet  dress 
— the  first  time  on — she  felt  an  inclination  to  weep.  She 
would  have  liked  to  have  offered  her  majesty  her  lace  shawl 
and  beg  her  to  wrap  herself  discreetly  in  it.  It  was  terrible 
for  the  queen  to  have  to  sit  there,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes 
(some  very  evil),  to  have  to  suffer  either  glances  of  com- 
passion or  a  brutal  stare  of  triumph. 

Why  did  they  invent  such  cruel  gossip  about  her?  Such 
spiteful,  hateful  gossip — a  shadow  of  truth  in  a  big  caul- 
dron of  lies.  Not  one  of  her  enemies  believed  any  good  of 
her. 

The  representative  gathering  at  the  Odeon  was  unusu- 
ally democratic.  Terezia  glanced  round  the  house,  curl- 
ing her  lips.  Look  at  the  rank  and  file!  Who  paid  for 
these  people's  tickets.?  Socialism  rubbing  elbows  with  ci- 
devant  conservatism.  It  was  not  fashionable  to  incline 
towards  the  throne.  .  .  .  The  right  to  live  belonged  to 
every  man.  To  live?  Terezia  remembered  her  adventure 
last  year  and  how  the  fat  man  had  boasted  of  coming 
events,  and  exploited  the  new  doctrine.  What  was  it? 
Death  to  the  aristocrats !    There  had  been  no  perceptible 


156  TORCHLIGHT 

change  in  popular  feeling.  The  Constitution  had  signally 
failed  to  relieve  the  situation.  Above  the  music  Terezia 
seemed  to  hear  a  menacing  cry  .    .    .  death!  death!  .    .    . 

The  queen,  seated  well  to  the  front  of  her  box,  remained 
an  impassive  spectator  of  the  scene.  She  very  seldom 
glanced  at  the  stage ;  she  very  seldom  spoke.  One  might 
have  said  that  her  majesty's  thoughts  had  strayed,  strayed 
beyond  the  heavy,  impure  atmosphere  of  the  theatre. 
Maybe  she  saw,  as  in  a  mirror  clearly,  her  own  people's 
regretful  farewell  to  their  princess  setting  out  for  France? 
She  had  been  young  in  those  days,  young  and  thoughtless ; 
fifteen  years  old,  and  sufficiently  spoiled  to  get  her  own 
way  in  everything.  Love  had  made  it  easy.  Hate  was 
a  different  matter.    .    .    . 

Her  majesty,  looking  downi,  met  the  fixed  glance  of  a 
personal  enemy.  She  knew  him  for  what  he  was,  this  little 
hard-working  lawyer  man  with  a  smooth  tongue  and  a  mind 
of  such  infinite  pettiness.  She  knew  him  and  she  didn't 
fear  him,  or  his  methods  or  liis  policy  or  what  he — in  his 
miserable  person — stood  for  .  .  .  her  majesty  had  always 
been  brought  up  to  despise  the  canaille. 

She  met  his  eyes  without  flinching.  She  drew  herself  up 
proudly.  Robespierre,  utterly  unabashed,  kept  his  flat- 
tened head  well  thrown  back,  starmg  up  at  the  royal  box. 
He  was  also  thinking  of  other  matters  than  the  play. 
There  were  clashings  in  his  little  head,  and  smiting  ham- 
mers, heavy  dull  blows  and  sharp  sword-thrusts  .  .  .  and 
sweetest  of  all,  dull  cries  of  agony  and  shrill  cries  for 
mercy.   ... 

He  scratched  the  back  of  his  neck.  .   .    . 

The  king  was  the  only  complaisant  individual  at  the 
theatre.  He  had  long  since  forgotten  "regrettable  inci- 
dents." He  had  long  since,  by  the  signing  of  this  new 
Constitution,  convinced  himself  of  the  stability  of  the 
Crown.  He  had  atoned  for  those  "regrettable  incidents" 
by  a  very  high  and  mighty  condescension.  His  reign 
would  mark  a  unique  place  in  French  history.  He  wished 
his  people  well.    He  had  comported  himself  with  true  dig- 


REVOLUTION  157 

nity.  No  one  had  forced  his  hand.  He  had  of  himself 
arrived  at  the  best  solution  of  a  political  deadlock.  Airt 
Air!  He  had  thrown  wide  the  door  and  ushered  in  the 
moniing.     God  knows  that  he  wished  his  people  well.  .   .    . 

He  smiled  and  fidgeted,  and,  on  the  edge  of  the  box,  beat 
his  royal  fingers  in  time  to  the  gay  light  music.  He  was  in 
quite  a  good  temper.  He  met  the  eyes  of  one  of  his  chief 
councilors — a  man  rather  given  to  new  ideas,  but  not  a 
bad  fellow  at  heart;  with  kingly  condescension  and 
fatherly  good- will  he  smiled  at  "the  creature."  (Marie- 
Antoinette,  estimable  lady  though  she  was,  had  a  way  of 
expressing  her  dislike  in  unmeasured  terms — she  had  called 
Deputy  Robespierre  "a  creature" — and  worse.    .    .    .  ) 

The  creature,  observing  royal  condescension,  received  it 
with  a  glassy  stare. 

The  king  was  quite  taken  aback.  He  sighed,  then  he 
yawned.     He  signaled  to  his  gentleman-in-waiting. 

"What  is  the  time?"  he  asked. 

"Just  upon  midnight,  sire." 

"Bien,  bien." 

In  half-an-hour's  time  he  would  be  able  to  slip  into  a 
loose  jacket  and  eat  his  supper  in  peace.  He  wasn't  so 
young  as  he  had  been.  The  king  glanced  very  affection- 
ately at  the  queen.  He  looked  distressed.  Faintly  he 
realized  Marie-Antoinette's  first  gray  hairs.  It  was  very 
disturbing.  He  almost  frowned  at  Robespierre.  What 
right  had  he  to  anger  the  queen!  He  would  have  liked 
to  have  risen  to  his  feet,  and  shaken  his  fist  in  the  horror- 
struck  face  of  patriotism,  shouting  "Cochons,  cochons!" 
They  were  all  a  set  of  pigs,  despicable,  low-down,  under- 
bred pigs !  He  grew  very  red  in  the  face.  The  queen 
noticed  his  majesty's  discomfiture.     She  put  out  her  hand. 

"Thank  you,  my  friend,"  said  the  king,  and  he  held 
tightly  on  to  the  all  too  fragile  fingers.  Her  rings  bit 
into  Marie- Antoinette's  flesh.  But  she  did  not  remove  her 
imprisoned  hand.     So  they  sat,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes. 

During  the  entr'-acte  Claire  looked  round  the  house  and 
asked  questions. 


158  TORCHLIGHT 

"Who's  that  lady  in  the  opposite  box?  She  is  very 
pretty." 

Terezia  leveled  her  glasses  at  the  box.  *'Which  one, 
dear?  The  woman  in  green  with  that  awful  feather  in  her 
head?" 

"No,  the  lady  in  white." 

"That's  Madame  Josephine  de  Beauhamais.  She's 
rather  nice-looking.  I  know  her  slightly.  Had  dinner 
with  her  last  week.  That's  her  husband  to  the  left,  and 
her  lover  to  the  right — at  least  I  tliink  so.  He's  one  of 
the  men  of  the  hour." 

"M.  de  Beauharaais?" 

*'No,  of  course  not.  The  greatest  bore  on  earth.  Sol- 
Biers  generally  are."  Terezia  looked  up  at  the  officer 
standing  behind  her.     "You  are  not  listening,  are  you?" 

"With  the  greatest  attention,  citoyenne" 

*'There  are  exceptions  to  every  rule,"  she  admitted. 

The  man  sat  down  and  drew  his  chair  very  close  to  the 
beautiful  citoyenne.  Over  her  bare  back  he  whispered 
intelligently  into  her  shell-like  ear.  .  .  .  Terezia  smiled. 
*'Don't  be  wicked,"  she  said. 

"Be  reasonable,"  he  said. 

**I'm  always  reasonable,"  she  sighed. 

Little  Mile.  Claire  discreetly  continued  observing  the 
house.  It  amused  her.  She  didn't  often  come  to  the  play. 
She  looked  again  at  the  pretty  Vicomtesse  de  Beauharnais 
.  .  .  she  had  a  fascinating  smile.  (As  we  know,  little 
Claire  was  very  generous  towards  women — she  even  re- 
spected their  weaknesses.)  .  .  .  She  wondered  why  she 
didn't  like  her  good-looking  husband.  She  didn't  like  the 
appearance  of  the  other  man.  She  knew  him  by  sight — 
M.  Paul  Barras,  a  gentleman  of  poor  reputation,  in  spite 
of  being  one  of  the  men  of  the  hour.  Claire  actually  tossed 
her  head.  That  wasn't  much  of  a  recommendation.  He 
was  a  gentleman,  after  all  .  .  .  an  aristocrat.  She 
shivered ;  the  title  had  an  ominous  sound.  What  had  they 
all  done  to  have  brought  themselves  to  this  sorry  pass? 
Claire's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as,  for  one  brief  instant,  she 


REVOLUTION  159 

met  tKe  queen's  eyes.  The  queen  looked  at  the  young  girl, 
across  the  crowded  house,  and  smiled  .  .  .  such  a  terribly 
sad  smile.  Claire  blushed  and  hastily  looked  away.  It 
was,  she  considered,  excessively  bad  manners  to  stare  at 
royalty. 

Her  glance  wandered  to  the  cheaper  part  of  the  house, 
the  pit,  as  we'd  call  it  to-day — filled  by  a  surging,  laugh- 
ing, gesticulating  crowd.  A  faint  film  passed  over  her 
eyes.     She  bent  forward,  staring  eagerly. 

*'Terezia,"  she  called,  turning  round. 

"Darling?" 

Terezia's  voice  was  as  milk,  rich  and  creamy.  Lieuten- 
ant Brienne,  talking  with  the  third  man — who  wondered 
why  the  deuce  he'd  been  asked — recognized  its  quality. 

The   dear  lady   was   enjoying  herself.      Captain   X 

was  a  notable  lady-killer.  Brienne  laughed  good-humor- 
edly.     He  was  also  an  officer,  up  on  leave  from  Valences. 

"Isn't  that  Georges,  Georges  Boisgaloup,  sitting  there?" 

Claire  pointed  eagerly  towards  the  pit.  "I  must  attract 
his  attention,"  she  said. 

"Do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Terezia  sharply.  (Her 
voice  was  no  longer  rich  and  creamy  .  .  .  Brienne  stroked 
his  moustache  .  .  .  'pon  his  soul,  he  couldn't  understand 
women.)  "I  don't  want  to  meet  him.  He's  a  brute,  an 
unmitigated  brute !" 

"Never  mind,  darling,"  murmured  the  contrite  Claire. 
In  the  joy  of  seeing  a  friend  from  "old  days" — how  distant 
they  seemed — she'd  utterly  forgotten  that  darling  Terezia 
hated  Georges.  He'd  been  rude  to  her,  very  rude — so 
unlike  Georges. 

Claire  stifled  her  disappointment.  M.  Brienne  came 
delicately  to  her  rescue.  He  distracted  mademoiselle  with 
an  agreeable  flow  of  small  talk  ...  it  was  a  devilish  long 
pause.  Had  something  happened  behind  the  scenes?  (As 
a  matter  of  fact  the  stage  manager  had  had  his  orders 
from  "a  man  of  the  hour."  No  able  patriot  ought  to 
ignore  any  little  opportunity  to  annoy  majesty  .  .  .  they 
didn't  like  being  kept  waiting — it  was  not  etiquette.     The 


160  TORCHLIGHT 

stage  manager — a  dense  patriot — ^had  seen  the  point  at 
last.  "The  citoyen"  he  said,  with  a  grin,  "could  rest 
assured  the  leading  lady  would  lose  her  shoe — at  the 
right  moment."  "Exactly;  no  hurry  about  her  finding 
it.  .  .  ,")  Bah !  what  contemptible  pigs  they  were !  His 
majesty  was  quite  right. 

M.  Brienne  pointed  out  to  Claire  a  brother  officer,  also 
up  on  leave. 

Claire  brightened  and  said  she'd  heard  his  name  before 
from  her  friend,  M.  de  Boisgaloup. 

"They're  inseparables,  mademoiselle." 

*'He  looks  foreign." 

*'A  Corsican.  His  mother  is  a  widow  with  a  large  fam- 
ily, mainly  existing  on  Bonaparte's  exertions.  People 
consider  him  good-looking." 

"He's  got  fine  eyes,  monsieur,"  said  Claire  modestly. 
*'Only  he  looks  too  restless  to  please  me." 

"He's  wedged  in  a  crowd  and  he  wants  to  get  on." 

In  truth  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  had  a  very  poor  place. 
His  thin,  sallow  face  had  a  contemptuous  expression.  He 
was  eating  an  orange,  rather  hungrily,  and  obviously  not 
attending  to  what  his  companion,  Boisgaloup,  was  saying. 

"The  amount  of  work  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  gets 
through  is  positively  astonishing.  I  tell  you,  mademoi- 
selle, he'll  make  notliing  of  walking  ten  miles,  without 
breakfast,  to  attend  a  lecture  in  the  morning  and  sit  up 
all  night,  supperless,  perfecting  his  lesson." 

"No  wonder  he  looks  thin,"  laughed  Claire.  "What's 
his  ambition,  sir?" 

At  that  moment  the  lights  were  lowered  and  the  curtain 
went  up,  so  Brienne  hadn't  an  opportunity  of  answering 
mademoiselle's  question.     It  was  the  last  act. 

Afterwards,  in  the  crowded  vestibule,  Terezia  clutched 
Claire's  arm  fiercely.  "There  he  is,"  she  said.  "He's 
been  here  all  evening  and  I've  never  known  it.  I  am  the 
most  unlucky  woman  on  earth." 

Passing  through  the  swing-doors  Claire  recognized  the 


REVOLUTION  161 

tall,  loosely-built  figure   of  Deputy   TaUien.     "What   a 
mercy,"  she  said.     "I  can't  bear  the  sight  of  him." 

"Oh,  you  little  fool !"  said  Terezia,  shaking  her  friend's 
arm  before  letting  it  go.  "We  are  going  on  to  supper  at 
Lamertine's.  Yes,  you've  got  to  come.  My  darling  child, 
I  must  think  of  my  reputation.  Remember,  Devin  has  sold 
his  pigs  and  he's  awfully  cross." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  earlier  in  the  evening,  Deputy 
Tallien  had  seen  and  recognized  the  beautiful  ci-devant 
Marquise  de  Fontenay.  He'd  colored  up  all  over  his  big 
face  with  pleasure.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  wouldn't 
allow  fate  to  dally  any  longer  with  his  desire ;  it  was  keen 
and  very  alive. 

He  had  sauntered  carelessly  down  the  gangway — he  was 
sitting  in  the  stalls — towards  the  first-tier  boxes  ...  no 
doubt  she'd  be  delighted  to  see  him  ...  no  doubt 

In  the  midst  of  these  agreeable  reflections,  Deputy 
Robespierre's  unpleasant  voice  recalled  him  to — well,  shall 
we  call  it  life?  He'd  been  crossing  a  pleasant  field  full  of 
delightful  fancy — here  he  was,  bang  up  against  actuality 
and  Robespierre's  gi-eenest  expression.     Tallien  sighed. 

"Where  are  you  going  to?" 

"Nowhere,"  said  Tallien,  sitting  down  beside  his  friend. 
That's  to  say,  I  can  wait — I  can  always  wait.'* 


a 


CHAPTER    XXII 

"O  EFORE  March,  a  new  fear  struck  the  Infantine  nation. 
■'-'  Europe  was  on  her  heels !  War  was  imminent !  The 
emigrants  had  mustered  an  army  of  close  on  half  a  million. 
The  Gei-mans  would  be  over  the  frontier  in  no  time !  Whose 
the  fault?  The  king's!  Who  had  intrigued  for  this  dis- 
graceful result?  The  queen!  Who  triumphed,  fancying 
a  speedy  solution  to  small  matters  of  personal  trial?  The 
aristocrats ! 

And  in  all  this  seething  turmoil — where  every  man  sus- 
pected his  brother  and  ribbon  cockades  gave  place  to  rude 
twists  of  tricolor  worsted — Robespierre  asks  for  leave  "to 
arrange  his  private  affairs,  and  also  to  take  much-needed 
rest,"  betakes  himself  to  Arras  and  installs  himself  on  a 
tranquil  farm  to  drink  milk,  eat  home-made  cheeses,  and 
contemplatively  to  stroke  the  house-cat's  fur.  The  farm- 
er's wife  would  say  (half  jestingly)  that  often  in  the  semi- 
darkness  of  evening  she  could  see  how  sparks  flew  from  the 
cat's  back.  The  cat  kept  her  eyes  shut,  but  the  contempla- 
tive gentleman  kept  his  wide  open — staring  into  the  embers. 
He  did  not  like  a  blaze.  He  did  not  like  being  disturbed. 
For  hours  he  would  sit  there  by  the  fireside,  stroking  the 
cat's  fur.  At  times  he  hardly  looked  human — this  strange, 
ugly  man.  He  gave  no  trouble,  he  was  gentle  in  his  ways ; 
and  no  doubt  he  was  an  honest  patriot. 

After  three  weeks  of  absence,  Robespierre  returned  to 
Paris.  He  had  not  been  altogether  idle.  He  brought  back 
with  him  various  letters,  pamphlets  and  nondescript  litera- 
ture. And  certain  plans.  The  plans  he  carried  behind  his 
narrow  forehead. 

On  his  return  to  Paris  Tallicn  went  to  see  his  Chief. 

162 


REVOLUTION  163 

Robespierre  had  of  late  asserted  himself  more  and  more. 
Tallien  with  a  large  smile  suffered  his  authority.  On  the 
whole  it  was  safer  to  stand  behind  another  man's  coat-tails. 
Tallien  was  the  soul  of  prudence.  He  had  a  hundred  httle 
pleasant  subterfuges  to  evade  the  finger  of  the  law.  He 
would  as  it  were  shoot  off  the  fireworks  and  then,  splut- 
tering with  mirth,  clamber  into  a  hole  and  watch  results. 

He  seldom  came  out  of  his  hiding-place  feeling  ag- 
grieved. The  people  were  heart  and  soul  with  him.  The 
people  had  small  patience  but  vast  credulity.  They  would 
swaUow  a  whale — spurting  blood  and  fire — as  easily  as  a 
picked  shrimp.  Tallien  loved  his  public.  Loving  them 
and  knowing  their  little  idiosyncrasies,  he  supplied  them 
handsomely  with  rancid  food.  Not  only  Paris  benefited 
by  his  literary  and  political  organs.  No  little  God-for- 
saken hamlet  escaped  his  vigilance. 

The  hamlets  and  the  little  villages  ignited  at  a  spark. 
Mad  terror  reigned  in  those  benighted  regions.  Reports 
came  to  hand  of  much  bloodshed,  pillage  and  incendiarism. 
Down  south  the  clmteaiix  burned  merrily.  The  aristocrats, 
hunted  from  their  homes,  sought  safety  from  imminent 
death  in  a  hundred  oddly  ingenious  disguises. 

Tallien  rubbed  his  hands  as  he  mounted  the  stairs  to 
Robespierre's  modest  office. 

He  listened  outside  the  door,  big  ear  to  the  keyhole.  He 
fancied  he  heard  voices.  He  was  mistaken.  The  Chief 
was  only,  in  his  solitude,  practicing  oratory.  There  were 
certain  speeches  to  be  got  off  by  rote — the  words  must  slip 
smoothly  from  key  to  key.  Robespierre  never  believed  in 
inspiration.  His  method  was  one  of  calculation.  He  was 
very  careful  not  to  make  mistakes.  Such  as  Tallien  might 
leap  at  a  sound  and  be  carried  off  their  feet  by  their  own 
eloquence.  Spontaneity  sometimes  impresses  the  multi- 
tude, but  more  often  than  not  it  wearies  them.  Concise- 
ness is  seldom  the  gift  of  improvisation.  Conciseness  in 
this  instance  was  essential.  Robespierre  mentally  put  his 
hand  to  the  plow.  He  was  clever  enough  to  see  the  blood 
furrow — but  he  kept  a  clear  head.     Blood  must  flow.  .   .   . 


164  TORCHLIGHT 

Tallien  closed  the  door  very  gently.  He  took  off  his  ha? 
with  a  dignified  gesture  to  his  Chief. 

"I  have  pleasure  in  seeing  you  back  again,  citizen,"  he 
said.  "No  doubt  you  have  benefited  by  your  holiday.'' 
How  was  the  country  looking.?" 

Robespierre  faced  him  smiling.  "Very  pretty,  thank 
you.     Arras  is  a  charming  little  town." 

"A  peaceful  place  where  nothing  unusual  ever  happens.'* 

"Exactly." 

"Surely  sometimes  the  postboy  gallops  past  at  a  rush.''" 

"Occasionally." 

"When  we  have  settled  our  little  affairs  we  will  both 
retire  to  Arras " 

"And  lead  a  quiet  and  idle  life " 

"And  grow  vegetables."  Tallien  unbuttoned  liis  yellow 
gloves,  and  laid  them  very  carefully  on  the  table.  "And 
now,"  he  said,  "to  business." 

Tallien  was  for  immediate  action — why  shouldn't  they 
gather  the  blossom  instead  of  the  fruit?  The  blossom  was 
very  beautiful.  Hadn't  he  observed  it  at  Arras.'*  a  place 
noted  for  its  orchards.  No  doubt  it  was  slightly  extrava- 
gant, but  he  felt  in  an  extravagant  mood  to-day.  .    .    . 

Robespierre  snarled.  If  he  couldn't  talk  sense  (he  said), 
what  was  the  good  of  discussing  business?  So  dear  Tallien 
sobered  down,  sat  down,  and  bent  his  sleek  black  head  next 
the  powdered  wig  affected  by  his  rival,  excuse  us,  his  Chief. 
A  subordinate  mustn't  contradict  his  superior.  .  .  . 
"Exactly."  .  .  .  "Exactly."  .  .  .  "Exactly."  ...  At 
lucid  and  precise  intervals  Tallien  agreed  to  Robespierre's 
masterly  scheme  of  organization. 

"It'll  go  under  the  name  of  a  spontaneous  demonstra- 
tion." 

"Exactly." 

"You  take  this  district.    It's  not  too  much  for  you?" 

"On  the  contrary." 

"If  you've  time,  sound  St.  Thomas.  And  speak  to  the 
women.  I'll  leave  all  the  women  to  you.  Your  depart- 
ment." 


REVOLUTION  165 

Tallien  smiled.  "I  may  have  some  slight  influence  in 
that  quarter,"  he  admitted.  "Very  well,  sir,  I'll  tackle 
the  women." 

"Put  it  to  them  plainl3^" 

"A  little  embroidery,  just  a  little — it  pleases  the 
women." 

"Invent  as  many  lies  as  you  like." 

"Or  as  many  as  I  can,"  said  Tallien,  pleasantly.  "I'm 
not  infallible,  citizen." 

Robespierre  removed  his  eyes  from  his  sheaf  of  papers 
and  looked  up  at  Tallien.  "No,  you  are  not,"  he  said. 
He  said  it  rudely. 

Tallien  only  smiled — generously.  It  wasn't  his  place  to 
contradict  his  revered  Chief.  "Exactly,"  he  said,  in  that 
even,  smooth  tone  of  his,  which  Robespierre  found  par- 
ticularly exasperating. 

When  they'd  arrived  at  a  satisfactory  solution  of  pre- 
liminaries— always  a  difficult  job — Tallien  referred,  much 
against  his  will,  to  money  matters. 

"I'd  be  obliged  by  a  temporary  loan,"  he  said. 

"You've  never  yet  paid  me  back  a  farthing." 

^'Exactly.  And  I  won't  until  we've  gathered  the  fruit." 
He  smiled.  "It's  such  a  pretty  sight.  I'm  a  countryman 
myself.  It's  a  pity  wasting  one's  youth  in  a  city.  There's 
so  much  misery  about.  The  queen — so  they  told  me — had 
toothache  last  night." 

"You  hear  everything  .P'* 

"Everything." 

*'You  are  having  them  carefully  watched.?" 

Tallien  held  up  his  broad  hands.  "Every  little  tiling 
which  takes  place  at  the  Tuileries  is  carefully  reported  to 
us.  I'm  not  the  head  of  that  department.  All  the  same 
I  take  a  fatherly  interest  in  it.  What  man  wouldn't? 
Family  life  is  so  purifying.  The  dauphin  got  a  new  musi- 
cal-box for  his  birthday  present.  The  king  likes  it  enor- 
mously. It  plays  seven  tunes.  Seven  is  a  lucky  number — 
except  when  it  is  unlucky,  of  course.    How  about  the  loan, 


166  TORCHLIGHT 

citizen?  Three  hundred  pieces  of  gold."  He  held  out  his 
broad-palmed  hand. 

Robespierre  went  to  liis  drawer  and  counted  out  to  him 
the  exact  sum.  In  a  spirit  of  unwonted  generosity  he 
added  an  extra  gold  piece. 

"For  luck,"  he  said. 

"Thank  jou,  kindly." 

The  money  was  no  more  his  than  Tallien's.  They  both 
appropriated  public  funds  for  their  own  uses.  Tallien's 
clothes  cost  money.  Tallien's  life  cost  money.  The 
"women"  had  to  be  paid.  Spies  had  to  be  reimbursed. 
Extra  editions — distributed  in  great  masses,  cost  free — 
run  into  figures.  Some  one  has  to  pay.  The  beauty  of  it 
was,  and  the  sweet  simplicity,  that  the  aristocrats  them- 
selves "advanced"  their  rentes  in  the  good  of  the  cause. 
"It  was  heavenly,"  said  TalHen.  "So  simple.  You  simply 
laid  embargo  on  lawful  property,  and  lo  and  behold,  it 
became  your  own." 

"My  dear  Robespierre,"  said  Tallien,  "I  shouldn't  won- 
der if  we  both  died  rich  men." 

"And  full  of  honors,"  said  the  other,  in  dead  seriousness. 
They  had  the  queerest  idea  of  honor. 

We  know — it's  hisj:ory,  friends.  They  knew  nothing, 
God  forgive  them.  After  all,  they  both  had  their  punish- 
ments— maybe  inadequate,  but  frightful  for  all  that. 
We've  got  to  follow  Tallien  a  long  way  down  the  road — 
in  his  case  it  led  to  a  bridge  and  a  pedler's  tray  and  a 
blind  man's  dog  and  a  beggar's  whine.  "Charite,  charite 
pour  I'amour  de  Dieu!"  It  is  an  immense  way  off.  We 
must  first  dance  our  puppet  in  the  sunlight,  and  give  him 
his  good  days — his  full  meals — his  less  full  meals,  before 
we  fling  him  a  halfpenny  to  buy  his  beggar's  daily  ra- 
tion.   ,    .    . 

Robespierre  hadn't  such  a  long  rope.  He  twirled  and 
twirled  and  twirled,  very  rapidly.  There  never  was  such 
a  fantastic,  dancing,  self-made  deity  as  his  godship.  As 
we  all  know,  he  ended — in  a  shriek — under  the  knife.  He'd 
set  it  up,  in  the  brazen  light  of  day — why  should  he  shriek.'* 


REVOLUTIOl^  167 

It  -was  what  he  might  have  expected.  For  years  he'd  fabri- 
cated a  ludicrous  book  of  faith — all  lies,  nothing  but  lies, 
abominable  lies. 

"Good-morning,  citoyen** 

"Good-morning,  citoyen.^* 

Ugh!     What  a  pair! 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

ALL  the  garbage  of  centuries  seemed  to  collect  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Tuileries.  No  man  could  wade  clear 
of  this  tideless  sea  of  decay.  It  required  a  torrential 
wave,  a  monster  wave  to  suck  in  its  whirling  depths  the 
horror  of  it  all. 

And  still  the  king  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and  per- 
sisted in  playing  piquet.  His  object  was  to  save  the  queen 
anxiety. 

In  those  brooding  days  of  July,  1792,  it  was  pathetic 
(and  in  a  way  sublime)  to  watch  God's  anomted  act  the 
part  of  a  bourgeois  pcre  de  famille.  He  was  all  smiles  in 
the  inner  circle.  He  had  his  little  jokes — always  well  re- 
ceived. In  that  little  family  circle  they  all  played  their 
parts,  all  eager  to  deceive  each  other  and  evade  dangerous 
topics. 

Questions  would  cfop  up  now  and  again.  It  was  hu- 
manly impossible  to  keep  the  dauphin's  musical  box 
tinkling  day  and  night,  drowning  sad  care. 

Care  peeped  in  at  the  curtained,  sunlit  windows ;  care 
flaunted  in  the  queen's  parterre,  and  even  her  roses  lost 
their  bloom. 

In  those  troublesome  times  the  queen  occupied  herself 
much  with  needlework.  With  her  embroidery-needle  fever- 
ishly flashing  to  and  fro,  the  queen  would  sit  and  listen 
to  the  king's  make-believe  absurdity. 

She  saw  through  his  labored  acting.  Now  and  again  the 
needlework  was  flung  to  the  floor,  and  her  Majesty  would 
impetuously  rise  and  fling  herself  into  the  king's  wide- 
stretched  arms.  "Oh,  my  all!  Oh,  my  life!"  she  would 
moan,  and  stroke  wath  her  curiously  thin  hand  the  king's 
florid  cheeks — fat  enough  in  spite  of  all  the  woe  in  France. 

168 


REVOLUTION  169 

France,  the  dear  land  of  her  adoption,  of  tradition,  of 
royal  state,  of  deep-rooted  culture — plunging  towards  her 
doom.  What  could  save  the  royal  house  of  France? 
What!  A  miracle  of  grace?  A  prophet  might  arise  and, 
barefooted,  thrust  aside  the  massed  enemies  of  order — 
restore  faith  to  the  goodly  land  of  France.  God  was 
good. 

They  had  their  faith.  In  all  this  turmoil  of  rank  heresy 
and  blasphemy,  the  Cross  comforted  the  royal  house. 
Their  religion  was  very  simple  and  elastic,  but  yet  it  held 
a  potent  promise.  Men  might  forsake  them  but  "le  bon 
Dieu"  would  safeguard  His  children.  Only  to  look  at 
Sister  Elizabeth  shook  atheism  to  its  core.  Her  loving 
counsel  was  founded  on  the  rock  of  Christ  crucified. 

The  storm  broke  in  fierce  suddenness.  It  beat  on  the 
private  door.  The  king — unarmed,  except  by  the  majesty 
of  patience — met  the  residue  of  his  people  face  to  face.  A 
crowd  they  were  and  very  hellish,  men  and  women  all 
armed  with  gibes,  murmuring  rage  and  intoxicated  tri- 
umph. They  had  forced  their  entrance  into  the  Presence. 
Who  could  deny  them  their  right !  Past  the  guards  they 
had  rushed — up  marble  stairs,  broad  and  splendid — in  clat- 
tering sabots  and  toeless  shoes,  in  rags  and  breeches  of 
coarse,  black  stuff,  a  clamoring,  fiendish  deputation  from 
the  world  beyond  the  palace  gates. 

The  king  received  them  in  royal  audience;  this  incon- 
gruous, impossible  rabble,  the  scum  of  the  gutter  and  red 
revolutionism.  They  jabbered  of  their  needs,  and  flashed 
on  the  king's  majesty  eyes  where  dull  sui-prise  sat  upper- 
most.   He  was  not  afraid  of  them? 

"Feel  my  heart,"  said  the  king  to  a  bragging  ruffian 
who  had  questioned  his  courage.  The  crowd  had  laughed. 
And  as  suddenly  someone  had  remembered  his  rags,  his 
foUy,  and  his  daring  devilry. 

Tallien  sat  in  his  private  office,  writing  vnih  gi'eat  haste. 

Tallien  never  liked  to  disappoint  his  adherents.     This 

time  he  had  succeeded  in  surprising  his  friends.     Dealing 


170  TORCHLIGHT 

\dth  the  matter  uppermost  in  the  thoughts  of  men — the 
raid  on  the  palace — he  deplored  the  unnecessary  violence 
to  the  king's  majesty.  He  hinted  at  the  inviolable  sacred- 
ness  of  home  life.  His  readers  gathered  from  Tallien's 
flo^ving  periods  that  an  attack  on  the  Constitution  would, 
in  comparison,  have  been  a  public  act  of  loyalty  to  the 
Nation  (as  distinct  from  the  Throne),  an  act  well  pleasing 
in  the  sight  of  Heaven. 

All  over  Paris  the  news  spread.  The  Press  no  longer 
held  with  the  people !  The  people  were  getting  out  of  hand 
— the  people  must  be  checked.  If  allowed  unbridled  li- 
cense, who  could  answer  for  their  deeds?  The  Public 
Accuser  shook  his  head — one  or  two  of  his  fellow  coad- 
jutors saw  him  smile.  When  Robespierre  smiled — so  they 
said — old  Nick  was  busy. 

Men  in  the  streets  thrust  their  woolen  caps  deeper  on 
their  brows,  and  thundered  disapproval.  The  people  would 
fight  for  their  liberty  unaided  by  these  faint-hearted 
patriots,  who  doubtless  had  been  bought  over  by  the 
government. 

It  was  a  close  game.  At  one  time  TalHen  went  in  danger 
of  his  life.  His  neutral-tinted  leaders  made  more  enemies 
than  friends. 

The  king,  with  kind  good-nature,  readily  forgave  the 
laxity  of  respect  shown  towards  his  own  person. 

"They  acted  in  ignorance,"  he  said.  Who  knew  but  that 
out  of  much  wrangling  an  understanding  might  arise.'* 
The  king  saw  himself  the  hero  of  the  hour,  falling  on  the 
repentant  necks  of  his  people.  He  would  weep ;  they  would 
weep.  And  the  queen  would  be  able  to  spend  the  month 
of  August  at  the  little  Trianon.  She  had  always  liked 
this  miniature  palace.  The  king  remembered  many  happy 
days  spent  on  the  south  terrace  ...  it  would  be  very 
pleasant  once  again  to  live  the  life  of  an  idle  country 
gentleman.  .  .  .  The  gardens  of  the  Trianon  were  very 
pretty.  The  king  recalled  the  play  of  the  little  fountain 
in  the  courtyard;  it  hardly  interfered  with  the  hum  of 
insects  or  the  gentle  twittering  of  the  birds.     He  had 


REVOLUTION  171 

never  cared  for  the  magnificence  of  Versailles.  The  dis- 
play of  artificial  water  in  the  pompous  gardens  struck 
him  as  wearisome.  One  can  have  too  much  of  a  good  thing. 
Louis  XIV.  (God  rest  his  soul)  had  been  consequential. 
Sometimes  he'd  over-reached  his  mark.  Louis  XI\^,  Avith 
a  pious  prayer  for  forgiveness,  gave  le  Grand  Monarque 
the  blame  of  the  present  disordered  condition.  He  had 
taxed  his  subjects  (what  with  one  thing  and  another)  just 
beyond  the  limit.  If  anyone  was  to  be  blamed  for  present 
calamity,  le  grand  Louis  must  bear  his  share  in  events. 
A  grievance  can  lie  dormant  for  a  hundred  years  and  more, 
and  suddenly  spring  to  appalling  activity.  .  .  .  The  king 
rubbed  his  eyes  and  went  in  to  supper.  Food  was  gen- 
erally his  solution  of  a  difficult  question. 

The  leading  conspirators  in  these  delicate  operations 
had  every  reason  to  congratulate  themselves  on  unusually 
keen  vision.  They  had  calculated  to  a  nicety  each  move 
in  the  game.  Never  once  had  they  fallen  foul  of  them- 
selves (though  often  of  each  other).  If  the  Constitution 
failed  to  march,  the  Revolution  sprinted  like  an  athlete. 
There  were  sinews  and  muscles  to  the  fore;  good  strong 
men  only  beseeching  to  be  allowed  to  act  in  the  interest  of 
the  common  cause ;  there  were  hungry  eyes  feasting  on  the 
slender  proportions  of  "turtle"- fed  ladies  and  gentlemen ; 
these  deeply  incriminated  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  aristo- 
cratic lineage  (no  crime  viler,  no  slur  of  greater  signifi- 
cance)— they,  and  they  alone,  encumbered  the  earth!  To 
have  done  with  them,  once  and  for  all,  to  finish  off  their 
doleful  tale  of  sin  and  shame!  "Friends  and  patriots, 
long  live  liberty !     Long  live  our  glorious  country !" 

Tallien  rubbed  his  hands  as,  unobserved,  he  watched  the 
good  citizens  of  Paris  taking  counsel  together.  They  were 
fit,  very  fit.  A  little  more  oiling — a  little  more  patience, 
a  trifle,  a  mere  nothing,  and  the  situation  would  declare 
itself. 

Still  rubbing  his  hands,  this  wnde-awake  politician  would 
return  to  his  editorial  duties.  Though  it  was  quite  late 
he'd  sit  up  practically  all  night  writing  a  glowing  state- 


172  TORCHLIGHT 

ment  of  the  National  Danger.  War  had  been  declared. 
It  behooved  every  man  to  look  to  his  weapon.  He  drew 
a  tormenting  picture  of  Prussian  invasion,  disaster,  de- 
feat, and  the  tenfold  retribution  of  aristocratic  inile.  Was 
she  ready — France  awake — to  submit  to  the  doles  of 
hereditary  wage-givers.''  Was  all  to  go  for  naught,  dis- 
tress and  hunger,  death  and  wrong,  centuries  of  oppres- 
sion.'* He  sharpened  in^^sible  pikes,  he  dropped  molten 
lead  into  visionary  wounds  ...  he  did  a  good  night's 
work    from   liis   point   of  view. 

Then,  over-tired,  he  would  roll  on  his  narrow  bed, 
dressed  as  he  was,  booted  feet  sprawling  on  the  counter- 
pane, and  go  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

"T'LL  go  alone!"  bellowed  Devin. 
•*■    "Tra-la-la,"  hummed  Terezia. 

"You  are  the  most  insufferable  fool  on  earth !" 

"Cela  depend." 

It  was  a  very  hot  morning,  close,  sultry,  not  a  breath 
of  air  stirring.  And  here  was  little  Devin  in  one  of  his 
"tempers"  inflicting  himself  on  his  poor  lady,  and  she  not 
yet  properly  dressed.  For  the  matter  of  that,  Terezia  in 
the  heat  of  August  floated  about  until  noon  in  the  airiest 
of  costumes.  (Weather  permitting,  she  kept  to  one  gar- 
ment ;  sandaled  feet  and  a  massive  plait  uncoiling  itself 
down  her  superb  back ;  a  thick  layer  of  powder  on  neck 
and  face  to  mitigate  the  sun's  rays.  .  .  .) 

Seated  by  the  open  Avindow,  she  was  sipping  a  cup  of 
chocolate.  Her  dressing-room  was  strewn  with  new 
dresses  and  odds  and  ends  of  millinery.  She  had  just 
given  her  Paris  dressmaker  an  intei'view,  and  made  a  selec- 
tion for  the  autumn  season.  Trade  was  bad  and  the  prices 
on  the  whole  moderate.  Terezia,  on  satisfactory  terms, 
had  bought  a  large  stock  of  unnecessary  clothes.  Neither 
in  September  nor  in  October  were  parties  likely  to  be  given. 
How  could  she  know  that?  What  was  the  date.'' — how 
quickly  time  passed — August  the  tenth. 

Fresh  news  from  Paris  had  brought  De\nn  in  a  towering 
passion  into  Terezia's  dressing-room.  He  would  rout  her 
out — the  lazy  slut !  The  good-for-nothing  baggage  who 
had  dishonored  his  stainless  name,  dishonored  the  blood  of 
a  hundred  earls — or  something  in  that  style.  The  ci- 
devant  marquis,  now  that  all  titles  were  of  equal  value, 
had  a  prodigious  respect  for  his  House.    Were  not  the  de 

173 


6i^ 
<«1 


174.  TORCHLIGHT 

Fontenays  equal  in  rank  to  the  de  Villequiers  ?  The  duke, 
by  the  way,  plotting  in  Brussels.  Happy  duke — beyond 
the  borders ! 

Only  two  days  old,  the  news  from  Paris — ^but  porten- 
tous! The  new  squadron,  dubbed  the  Marseillais,  a  set 
of  fierce  fire-brands,  had  come  to  blows  with  the  FiUes 
Saint-Thomas  men,  and,  in  their  trail,  a  rabble  of  parti- 
sans. A  good  many  had  been  killed  and  wounded.  The 
marching  women  had  been  the  worst — they  had  shrieked 
and  egged  the  men  on,  hurling  words  and  hurling  stones. 
They  had  stormed  towards  the  Tuileries. 
'Yes?"  said  Terezia,  expectantly. 

'Is  not  that  enough?  The  Swiss  held  the  rabble  at 
bay — and  at  length  the  soldiers  lost  interest  in  their 
quarrel.     By  nightfall  Paris  slept." 

"Well,  I  don't  see,"  began  Terezia,  plaintively,  "if  they 
are  quiet,  why  you  should  make  such  a  noise.  Do  go  away, 
please." 

She  pushed  aside  her  cup  of  chocolate  and  moved  to- 
wards her  toilet  table.  Deftly  she  coiled  her  hair  and 
tried  on  a  new  hat. 

Devin  walked  across  the  room  and  as  quickly  snatched 
at  the  hat  and  deliberately  trampled  on  it. 

Terezia  behaved  very  sweetly.  Nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  women  out  of  a  thousand  would  have  taken 
such  an  incident  in  a  very  bad  spirit.  She  hardly  looked 
at  the  hat,  nor  at  her  husband,  executing  a  war-dance 
with  lack  of  grace. 

"If  I  were  you,  Devin,"  she  said,  "I  would  take  some 
medicine.  It  is  very  bad  for  the  constitution  to  give  way 
to  temper  and  does  no  good  in  the  world.  If  you  had 
spoken  reasonably  I  would  have  been  pleased  to  give  you 
my  best  attention.  The  fact  is  you  tire  me.  Your  meth- 
ods are  not  my  methods.  Bear  me  out — "  she  pointed 
to  the  flattened  hat, — "I  am  not  in  the  least  cross  though 
you  have  ruined  a  charming  creation.  I  am  clever  enough 
to  know  that  I  can  get  a  new  hat.  And  also  a  new  hus- 
band.   That  is  why  I  put  up  with  you.    If  I  thought  we 


REVOLUTION  175 

were  inseparable  I  would  weep  my  eyes  out — as  it  is,  I  can 
afford  to  be  generous." 

With  the  majesty  of  a  goddess  she  crossed  the  room 
and  held  out  her  hand.     "I'll  forgive  you,"  she  said. 

He  in  duty  bound  kissed  her  hand  and  begged  her 
pardon.     (He  always  did.) 

"Thank  you,  my  friend.    I  am  sorry,"  he  said  (limply). 

"Don't  mention  it.  You  have  many  trials.  It  would 
be  wicked  of  me  not  to  do  you  so  much  justice.'* 

Terezia  with  unwonted  graciousness  asked  Devin  to 
help  her  with  her  correspondence.  Defeated  in  every 
point,  he  meekly  submitted.  For  two  hours  they  worked 
side  by  side  at  Terezia's  commodious  new  writing-table. 
Her  old  desk  (a  little  gem)  stood  against  the  wall  stuffed 
full  with  love-letters.  For  some  reason — probably  ro- 
mantic— the  charming  ci-devant  marchioness  still  penned 
her  "personal"  missives,  lilac-scented  at  tliis  inconvenient 
table. 

When  Devin  had  successfully  written,  in  a  perfectly 
disguised  handwriting,  a  series  of  incriminatory  instruc- 
tions (each  one  of  which  might  have  cost  him  his  head, 
red  hair  and  all),  Terezia  rewarded  him  with  a  kiss. 

"My  great  big  tyrant,"  she  said,  "when  you  are  nice 
you  are  very  nice." 

He  returned  the  compliment.  Even  though  he  loathed 
her  he  felt  the  spell  of  her  womanhood.  Heat  suited 
Terezia.  Never  had  her  bare  throat  and  her  indiscreetly 
veiled  shoulders  looked  so  white  or  so  velvety.  Devin 
noticed  a  little  blue  vein  on  her  firm  bosom. 

She  was  quick  to  percieve  his  glance.  There  was  no 
one  else  staying  in  the  house.  Terezia  felt  a  bit  out  of  it 
and  dull,  and  she  had  neglected  Devin,  and  she  Jiad  caused 
him  intense  annoyance,  and  strictly  speaking  she  hadn't 
alwaj^s  treated  him  with  the  highest  consideration. 

She  was  tired  of  writing  incriminating  letters  for  the 
good  of  her  fellow-sufferers.  (The  reward  was  slow  in 
coming.)  She  laid  down  her  charming  mother-o'-pearl, 
gold-nibbed  pen,  and  let  "ce  pauvre  monstre"  encircle  her 


176  TORCHLIGHT 

'wraist  with  a  curiously  flabby  arm — even  at  that  moment 
Terezia  felt  it  was  flabby — she  suffered  his  embrace,  she 
suffered  his  kiss.  Her  beautiful  eyes  were  wonderfully 
soft  as  they  met  his.  ... 

Devin  long  remembered  August  the  tenth  as  a  red-letter 
day  in  his  existence.  Terezia  had  seldom  been  so  charm- 
ing, so  pliable,  so  complaisant. 

The  whole  afternoon  the  happy  family  had  spent  in  a 
clover  field.  The  little  Georges  came  in  for  a  lion's  share 
of  his  parents'  attention ;  they  had  played  with  him,  they 
had  invented  little  stories  to  please  him ;  they  had  laughed 
at  each  other's  ^vit.  When  Devin  made  a  ball  of  white 
clover  and  flung  it  gently  into  Terezia's  lap,  she  had  flung 
it  neatly  back  again  into  his  outstretched  palm.  Georges 
thought  it  such  a  good  game — they  had  all  three  laughed. 
After  which  mamma  had  unpacked  a  "sui'prise"  basket — 
in  it  all  manner  of  good  things.  Little  Georges  could  eat 
as  many  sponge-cakes  as  he  liked,  and  papa  shared  with 
mamma  a  bowl  of  strawberries  and  cream.  They  all  had 
some  of  the  rich  yellow  cream — though  mamma  said  it 
was  ruinous  for  her  figure.  Papa  said  nothing  could  spoil 
anything  so  perfect.  Little  Georges  laughed.  He  was 
a  gay,  happy  child  and  he  took  his  treats  splendidly.  He 
didn't  know  what  day  it  was — and  didn't  care — but  he 
felt  sure  he  had  never  had  a  happier  one. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  before  the  party  broke  up.  Georges 
rode  home  all  the  way  on  papa's  shoulder ;  mamma  follow- 
ing, swinging  her  garden  hat  by  a  velvet  string — through 
the  shady  avenue  they  walked  in  a  very  dilatory  manner. 
Little  Georges  was  sleepy — he  had  eaten  a  good  many 
sponge  cakes — and  Terezia  was  thoughtful.  In  these 
strenuous  times  it  was  selfish  to  be  idle  .  .  .  she  sighed. 
Devin  looked  round. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said  very  kindly. 

"Oh,  nothing.  Fate  is  inexorable.  If  life  had  been 
different,  what  a  perfect  wife  I  would  have  made !  You've 
liked  me  to-day  .f*" 

*'I  will  love  you  for  ever  if  you  will  allow  me.' 


»» 


REVOLUTION  177 

She  only  sighed  again.  "We  cannot  control  our  des- 
tiny or  our  inclination,"  she  said  sadly. 

She  slipped  her  hand  through  Devin's  arm  and  smiled. 
"This  day  is  yours — come  what  may." 

She  felt  his  pulses  beat. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  he  said. 

She  nodded. 

After  supper,  reclining  on  a  couch  in  the  library, 
dressed  in  fair  white  silk,  one  great  red  rose  on  her  "breast, 
Terezia  poured  out  her  heart  to  her  attentive  husband. 
She  looked  very  captivating,  tliis  simple  child  of  nature, 
as  she  pleaded  her  own  cause  prettily — her  youth,  her 
thoughtlessness,  her  beauty.  He  asked  himself  in  bewilder- 
ment, "Have  I  given  her  of  my  best?  Have  I  given  her 
of  my  time?  Have  I  protected  this  woman  God  gave 
me?"  To  all  these  heart-burning  queries  he  could  only 
shake  his  head — negatively.  He  had  been  the  culpable 
one,  he  had  been  blind  to  madness !  Terezia  had  wanted 
telling,  not  in  harsh  and  ungainly  language,  but  kindly, 
lovingly,  as  you'd  speak  to  a  little  child.  How  blind  he 
had  been  not  to  fathom  her  incomparable  nature !  There 
was  a  fund  of  sweetness,  of  diffidence,  of  true  womanly 
dignity  in  her  character.  She'd  only  wanted  his  sym- 
pathy, so  she  said.  He  tried  to  believe  her,  looking  at 
the  deep  red  rose  at  her  bosom,  which  he  had  gathered  for 
her  only  two  hours  ago. 

All  the  same  it  was  bewildering. 

She  clasped  her  hands  over  her  head — a  favorite  gesture 
of  hers — "Oh,"  she  said,  "I  am  so  disappointed  in  myself. 
I  ouffht  to  have  behaved  better.  There  is  no  shadow  of 
excuse  for  a  woman  to  accept  love  where  she  cannot  faith- 
fully return  it.  My  sin  is  a  sin  of  omission.  Looking 
back  I  realize  my  culpability.  I  have  never  loved!"  (she 
almost  sobbed).  "Believe  me  or  believe  me  not,  I  am 
telling  you  the  absolute  truth.  I  am  tired  of  my  existence. 
I  want  a  solid  interest  in  life." 

She   looked    at   Devin — perhaps   he    didn't   look    solid 


178  TORCHLIGHT 

enough  to  tempt  her  to  invite  him  to  step  in  and  fill  the 
vacancy? 

All  was  chaos,  violence  and  death.  She  found  a  parallel 
in  the  present  wickedness  to  her  own  blighted  condition. 
The  ineffable  sadness  of  it  all  wrung  no  reproach  from  her 
lips.  She  exonerated  Devin.  He  shouldn't  burden  his 
life  by  her  "folly"  .  .  .  she  wouldn't  allow  it.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  at  last  know  if  he  was  standing  on  his  head 
or  his  heels ;  in  any  case  Terezia  was  a  blameless  woman ! 
He  could  not  say  less  in  face  of  her  poignant  self- 
reproaches. 

"Bear  with  me,"  she  said.  "It  won't  be  for  long.  In  a 
very  little  while  you  will  be  a  free  agent." 

He  remembered  their  pending  divorce.  The  thought 
shook  him  completely.  He  would  cancel  the  suit — so  he 
said.     Their  case  shouldn't  come  before  the  Courts. 

"Why  not?"  said  Terezia  meekly.  "Our  petition  is 
very  clear.     I  would  not  dream  of  demanding  a  sacrifice." 

Devin  with  hot  cheeks  answered  her  that  circumstances 
change  the  man  (or  woman)  and  that  he  for  one  would 
not  look  on  their  reconciliation  as  a  sacrifice. 

"For  how  long?"  she  said,  without  a  shadow  of  bitter- 
ness.    *'You  are  temperamentally  jealous " 

"You  have  tried  me,  Terezia." 

"How  you  err!  My  heart  is  asleep;  one  day  it  may 
wake." 

On  this  reflection  she  closed  her  eyes  and  lay  immovable. 

He  also  was  sunk  in  deep  speculation ;  the  outlook  on 
the  whole  was  fluctuating.  Why  on  earth  couldn't  she 
love  her  husband  like  an  honest  woman! 

He  was  near  to  frowning,  but  Terezia  disarmed  him. 
"Great  big  tyrant,"  she  said,  "assert  your  authorit}^ ! 
I  am  waiting  to  be  taught  my  lesson.  Women  are  such 
adaptable  creatures,  and  are  always  the  slaves  of  men. 
I  could  adore  a  blackguard  if  he  was  also  a  strong  man. 
.  .  .  Don't  frown ;  I  would  not  hurt  your  feelings  for 
anything  in  the  world.     Devin,  I  ask  your  forgiveness. 

*'How  so?"  he  murmured.     "You  despise  me." 


j> 


REVOLUTION  179 

*'Indeed  I  don't.  You  are  immeasurably  my  superior. 
You  at  least  stand  by  your  word.'* 

"What  am  I  to  believe.?'* 

"Look  at  me." 

He  looked. 

"Hold  my  hand." 

He  held  it. 

"My  husband,"  she  said,  "my  dear  husband,  do  trust 
me." 

He  did  not  trust  her,  but  he  kissed  her  passionately 
instead.  Terezia  was  just  as  pleased.  She  felt  herself 
to  be  a  saint,  a  wife,  and  a  mother  all  in  one  captivating 
whole.  Poor  Devin  ...  he  was  dreadfully  ugly  .  .  .  yet 
somehow  she  felt  touched  at  his  uncouth  demonstration 
of  affection.  She  would  yield  herself  entirely  to  his  wishes. 
She  would  suffer  him  gladly. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

CHANCE  had  left  the  royal  family  In  the  hand  of 
Destiny. 

Can  we  read,  in  the  scroll  of  history,  a  more  pitiable 
tale  than  that  of  this  little,  very  devoted  family  closeted 
together  on  the  evening  of  "Red  Friday"? 

The  Family,  with  the  Family's  usual  elasticity  of 
temperament,  had  hoped  for  the  best.  They  had  even, 
as  the  day  lagged  on,  ventured  to  ridicule  the  situation — 
"Le  tocsin  ne  rend  pas."  .  .  .  All  this  blatant  hurrying 
of  armed  men  and  gloomy-visaged  courtiers,  ready  to  die 
for  king  and  country,  was  quite  unnecessary.  The  clamor 
of  bells  from  steeples,  sombre  in  the  night  dusk,  had  rung 
to  dull  patriots — they  were  asleep,  no  whit  inclined  to 
rise  and  risk  their  ill-starred  lives.  .   .  . 

Unloosed  rage  is  not  so  easily  kenneled.  The  simul- 
taneous ringing  of  all" the  church  bells  in  Paris  had  been 
heard  in  palace  and  hovel  alike. 

Only  the  head  of  this  particular  little  family,  which 
calls  for  our  Immediate  sympathy,  refused  to  credit  the 
truth.  Indeed,  so  little  was  the  king  intimidated  by  per- 
sonal danger  that  out  he  marched — alone  and  unattended 
— to  face  his  rebellious  troops.  He  would  speak  to  them. 
His  reception  was  such  that,  very  red  in  the  face,  he  was 
obliged  to   return  with  his  errand  unfulfilled. 

The  royal  ladies  had  underrated  the  king's  simple 
bravery — they  were  horrified  when  they  detected  his  ab- 
sence and  overwhelmed  with  joy  at  his  safe  return.  They 
had  also  underestimated  the  power  of  brute  passion. 
Apparently  these  mad  revolutionists  were  ready  to  die, 
snarling;  rage  fed  them  as  fire  Ignites  oil. 

Towards  dusk,  the  family,  collected  in  one  room,  saw 

180 


REVOLUTION  181 

in  the  palace  gardens  and  far  beyond  the  iron  barriers  a 
sea  of  faces,  one  mass  of  faces  and  jet  one  Face.  .   .  . 

"Let  us  go,"  said  the  king. 

The  family  never  argued  with  their  head.  They  went. 
A  doleful  little  procession  of  six — three  ladies,  a  boy,  a 
girl,  and  a  stout  gentleman  who  carried  himself  with 
great  dignity.  They  walked  over  to  the  House  of  As- 
sembly through  treble  ranks  of  sullen  subjects.  The  wind 
swept — so  they  say — the  first  autumn  leaves  across  their 
path,  and  the  boy  of  the  party,  bounding  forward,  caught 
hold  of  a  handful  and  playfully  flicked  them  in  the  face 
of  a   stalwart   Marseillais.  .   .   . 

In  the  palace  they  had  just  vacated,  brave  men,  of  scant 
argument  and  magnificent  dullness,  were  loading  their 
weapons — each  man  at  his  post — eying  the  Face  beyond 
the  barriers.  Vaunt  them  to  the  skies,  these  courageous 
dupes  who  carried  their  belief  in  the  face  of  utter  blank- 
ness.  They  were  there  to  guard  the  sacred  person  of 
majesty.  His  majesty  was  on  his  way  to  the  scaffold. 
They  knew  it  not — he  knew  it  not — all  they  knew  for 
certain  was  that  the  king  had  left  them  in  charge  of  his 
honor.  For  the  sake  of  honor  many  sublime  follies  have 
been  committed.  Theoretically  speaking  there  was  no 
need  for  this  fanatical  sacrifice  of  life  and  these  deeds  of 
personal  valor — this  butchery  of  innocent  men.  It  all 
fitted  in  with  the  lamentable  story. 

Robespierre  had  unleashed  the  hounds  of  hell,  and,  as 
the  evening  wore  on,  and  a  fitful  moon  hovered  in  the 
cloudy  sky,  all  over  Paris  the  hounds  bayed  in  chorus, 
well-fed,  well-content.   .   .  . 

All  Paris  sang  except  the  aristocrats.  Among  aris- 
tocrats supper  went  a-begging  that  night. 

The  king  was  the  exception ;  harassed  by  "events,"  he 
ate  hungrily  of  a  stew  of  beef  and  vegetables  placed  at 
his  disposal  by  his  legislative  council. 

They  also  provided  him  with  temporary  accommodation 
until  more  suitable  quarters  could  be  found.  The  rooms 
were  very  small — but  all  the  safer — giving  directly  on  the 


182  TORCHLIGHT 

Hall  of  Assembly — dark,  low-pitched,  evil-smelling,  and 
three  in  number  by  courtesy — one  a  cupboard,  or  the 
queen's  bedroom,  if  you  prefer  it.  Such  the  sanctuary 
of  France !  The  king  solemnly  declared  that  he  found  his 
quarters  "sufficient  pending  a  better  arrangement."  The 
queen  said  nothing.  In  the  little  cupboard-room,  on  a 
hard  bare  bench,  she  sat — dazed  by  events. 

Sister  Elizabeth  put  the  children  to  bed  on  a  makeshift 
mattress.  She  was  dimly  conscious  of  unspeakable  hor- 
ror. She  knew  nothing  of  mob  rule,  revolution  and  prim- 
itive democracy.  She  had  never  gone  hungry  to  bed  in 
all  her  gentle  life,  nor  lacked  for  friends  or  amusement. 
.  .  .  How  could  a  kind  princess  realize  that  decency  and 
mercy  were  bankrupt,  and  could  borrow  no  more  in  a 
world  of  brutal  facts.'* 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IT  was  quite  late,  nearer  midnight,  when  a  small,  thin 
person  accompenied  by  a  tall,  broad  person,  both 
wrapped  in  voluminous  cloaks — lanterns  in  hand — walked 
up  the  much-disfigured  gardens  of  the  Tuileries. 

They  swung  their  lanterns  on  comparatively  peaceful 
surroundings.  Here  and  there  a  lawless  and  no  doubt 
greedy  citizen  was  stealthily,  under  cover  of  darkness  and 
sheltering  trees,  creeping  towards  the  battered  gates  with 
booty  cumbersome  or  light  of  weight.  You  could  pick 
and  choose  as  you  liked  in  that  tumbled,  broken  heap  of 
valuables  lying  in  the  courtyard  just  as  they  fell,  when, 
with  ruthless  vandalism,  the  invaders  had  pitched  the  royal 
furniture  out  of  gaping  windows.  Some  were  for  a 
people's  bonfire,  a  mighty,  substantial  blaze — others  for 
moderation  and  personal  profit;  the  moderates  spied,  in 
the  pell-mell  of  objects,  articles  well  worth  the  carrying; 
gold  pieces  and  silver  pieces,  ornate  mirrors,  comfortable 
carpets  and,  by  the  Lord,  yes !  the  quaintest  of  satin 
cushions,  embroidered  no  doubt  by  queenly  fingers.  Some 
capacious  wit  vowed,  with  very  blasphemous  oaths,  he 
would  inherit  that  puffed  satin  conceit  and  for  the  fun 
of  the  thing  stuff  it  into  homely  use.  He  would  make  a 
footstool  of  the  queen's  pillow  and  kick  it  mercilessly. 
.   .   .   Cruel  words  were  cheap  on  August  the  tenth. 

More  choice  oaths  heralded  the  discovery  of  old  wine. 
The  people  sang  in  the  immense  cellars,  and  danced, 
clasped  hand  to  hand,  among  the  dusty  bins.  Refreshed 
they  rushed  to  new  deeds  of  burning  patriotism.  Blood 
was  better  than  wine!  Blood  was  intoxicating! — reeling 
drunk  these  loathsome  thieves.  .  .  . 

The  two  cloaked  figures  threaded  their  way  through  the 

183 


184  TORCHLIGHT 

debris.  They  let  their  lanterns  play  on  a  considerable 
heap  of  dead. 

The  taller  figure  made  some  remark  to  his  companion, 
but  he  got  no  response.  Picking  their  way,  they  entered 
the  smoke-grimed  vestibule  of  the  palace. 

It  was  very  quiet. 

The  fitful  moon,  drifting  clear  of  the  clouds,  looked  in 
placidly  into  an  upper  chamber.  It  was  a  large  room, 
and  once  upon  a  time — at  no  distant  date — it  had  been 
a  lady's  drawing-room,  full  of  her  little  possessions,  her 
pet  flowers,  her  favorite  pictures,  her  easiest  chairs.  Here 
of  evenings,  very  likely,  the  owner  of  the  room  (with  a 
very  pretty  taste)  would  sing  and  play  the  harpsichord 
or  display  to  an  intimate  circle  of  relations  and  friends 
those  little  touches  of  feminine  grace  and  feminine  wit 
which  sum  up  a  woman's,  a  home  woman's  charm.  We 
can  without  difficulty  see  the  inviting  pictures,  the  fine, 
faint  colors,  the  dim  gilding,  the  white  paneling,  the 
shadowy  curtains — fluttering  in  the  summer  breeze  .  .  . 
twilight,  which  is  to  music  its  natural  setting,  gives  to  our 
interieur  its  true  value.  And  when  the  music,  with  a  ripple 
of  modulated  chords,  dies  into  memory,  into  the  twilight 
scheme  steal  the  soft  tones  of  cultured  voices  brightly 
discussing  some  agreeable  subject,  disagreeing  and  agree- 
ing .  .  .  the  tinkle  of  a  silver  spoon,  the  candle-light,  the 
curling  steam  from  a  tea-kettle  and  a  general  laugh  at 
some  witty  sally — received  and  given  in  excellent  fellow- 
ship. .  .  . 

The  room — so  very  recently  a  frame  of  human  affection 
— had,  by  some  sinister  jugglery,  lost  its  true  character; 
the  disorder  was  heartbreaking,  the  dirt  astonishing. 
What  incredibly  muddy  footsteps  must  have  dug  into  the 
soft  carpet,  stained  by  uglier  marks  than  clay.  The 
curtains  hung  in  tattered  wisps,  and  all  the  movable  fur- 
niture had  been  carried  away.  It  was  a  sorry  spectacle ; 
yes,  and  in  the  light  of  the  drifting  moon  and  the  station- 
ary glitter  of  a  couple  of  lanterns,  not  a  pleasant  sight. 
Across  the  threshold  to  the  right  lay  two  corpses  huddled 


REVOLUTION  185 

together  in  a  pool  of  blood — one  a  king's  man,  the  other 
one  of  Robespierre's  tools — a  poor  blackguard  he,  huge 
of  limb  and  dirty  of  attire.  There  were  many  such  hug- 
ging the  earth  below,  with  splintered  skull  or  gaping 
wound.  They  were  of  priceless  value,  these  erstwhile 
ruffians,  vagabonds  and  true  patriots — now  dead  men  to 
be  avenged. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  a  deal  table,  chipped 
and  broken,  and  two  or  three  cane  chairs  carried  from 
God  knows  where,  to  accommodate  tired  patriots.  On  the 
table  stood  an  empty  wine-bottle.  The  bottle  finished, 
the  honest  patriots  had  gone  elsewhere.  It  was  a  big 
palace  and  full  of  likely  treasure.  The  empty  rooms  did 
not  attract  the  public.  There  was  nothing  to  do  in  a 
dismantled  room,  but,  maybe,  kick  the  body  of  a  mad 
Swiss.  The  Swiss  had  fired  on  the  people — the  obstinate, 
pigheaded,  muddle-brained  gentlemen  who,  when  the  swarm 
was  upon  them — twenty,  thirty,  forty  to  one — still  kept 
their  swords  level,  playing  with  a  nicety  of  purpose. 
Forty  to  one — what  boots  the  most  finished  swordsman- 
ship in  the  world?  Glory?  Glory  is  a  loose  expression 
and  comfortless  on  occasions.  Maybe  the  Swiss  were 
hewn  down  in  a  nimbus  of  heavenly  radiance;  as  a  corps 
of  dead  men  they  looked  a  poverty-struck  company.  Most 
of  them,  besides  being  frightfully  used,  had  been  partially 
or  entirely  stripped;  as  negative  objects  they  were  dis- 
piriting, these  stalwart  men  who  had  known  how  to  die 
with  a  very  hazy  notion  as  to  why. 

A  sound  broke  the  stillness,  very  faint,  a  little  tinkling 
melody,  plaintively  reminiscent  of  a  waltz-tune.  Never 
was  there  such  an  incongruous  air.  The  waltz  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  opening  bars  of  an  ambitious  march — this  a 
labored  piece  of  music — the  mechanical  contrivance  wheezy 
at  times. 

Seated  in  the  queen's  private  drawing-room  a  patriot: 
was  amusing  himself  by  churning  out  the  tunes  from  the 
dauphin's  dear  little  plaything.  It  was  a  new  toy  to  the 
patriot  and  struck  him  as  being  extremely  cunning, 


186  TORCHLIGHT 

He  went  on  repeating  the  tunes — almost  mechanically 
— half  listening  to  other  sounds.  His  companion  had 
spoken  twice,  now  he  was  silent;  only  that  inadequate 
dance  measure  filling  vast  spaces.   .  .  . 

Through  the  wide-flung  doors  there  loomed  an  immen- 
sity of  vacant  rooms.  The  palace  had  been  forsaken.  By 
order. 

The  cloaked  man  with  the  musical  bump  sat  loosely  on 
his  chair,  legs  sprawling,  and  arms  flung  wide  on  the 
stained  table.  His  companion  had  dropped  his  cloak — 
he  very  upright,  very  recognizable,  very  inquisitive.  He 
peered  into  the  darkness  with  short-sighted  eyes,  palely 
blue  about  the  lips,  a  sickly,  diseased,  abnormal  fellow-r- 
abnormally  rejoicing.  He  did  his  thanksgiving  in  silent 
prayer.     No  shouting  or  playing  the  fool  for  him. 

His  sprawling  companion  had  never  ceased  to  comment, 
to  wonder,  to  suggest,  to  glory  immoderately.  Never  had 
a  juicier  plum  fallen  into  a  more  grateful  mouth!  He  of 
the  sprawling  limbs  was  one  wide  revealing  smile. 

The  lantern  stood  on  the  soiled  table  and  the  moon  shone 
fitfuUy. 

There  were  mysterious  tappings  and  creakings  in  the 
vast  chamber,  mysterious  sighs,  mysterious  footfalls. 
,  .  .  Tallien  could  have  sworn  they  were  not  alone. 

He  roused  liimself,  pushed  the  musical-box  to  tinkling 
extremity,  sang  in  a  cracked  whisper  a  deplorable  verse — 
overturned  the  empty  bottle  and  sent  it  crashing  through 
the  window. 

The  smaller  man  sat  quite  still,  a  faintly  humorous  smile 
hovering  over  his  attentive  face. 

"This  expedition  was  a  happy  idea,"  said  he. 

"Think  so?"  Tallien  tried  to  hide  his  terror  by  ex- 
treme bravado.  He  hated  the  little  bluQ-lipped  devil 
opposite  him.     (All  hatred  is  more  or  less  rooted  in  fear.) 

Robespierre  put  out  his  hand  and  quite  gently  removed 
the  musical-box.     "I  don't  like  it,"  he  said  sunply. 

"I  am  sorry——" 


REVOLUTION  187 

Robespierre  tapped  his  long  thin  fingers  on  the  table. 
"For  a  beginning  it  is  not  bad,"  he  said. 

Tallien  laughed.  "Lord,  but  you  are  modest!" 
"Not  at  all.  I  want  a  great  many  heads  to  avenge  that 
poor  fellow's  broken  skull."  (He  jerked  his  thumb  in  the 
direction  of  the  killed.)  "Roughly  speaking,  I  should 
say  we  have  lost  some  two  hundred  men,  we'll  say  three 
hundred.     You've  got  your  notebook?" 

Tallien  drew  the  lantern  nearer  to  himself.  With 
trembling  fingers  he  fished  out  of  his  pocket  a  soiled 
leather-covered  volume  of  no  inconsiderable  bulk. 

Bending  close  to  the  light  he  scanned  some  very  closely- 
written  pages. 

"Addresses?" 

"Yes." 

"How  many?" 

"Some  thirty  thousand." 

Robespierre  bit  his  thumb-nail  savagely.  "All  suspected 
persons  to  he  seized.  Given  ventilation,  the  prisons  will 
answer  our  purpose.     Movable  property — hein!" 

"You  will  go  gently,  brother?" 

His  little  brother  laughed.     "Very  gently.     Those  who 

speak "      He  did  not   finish   his    sentence,   but   very 

tenderly  he  clasped  his  throat  with  both  his  hands.  "Even 
the  best  of  patriots  can  die — suddenly.  Life  is  in  the 
hands  of  God " 

"Subject  to  the  approval  of  a  select  committee." 

"Exactly." 

"We  have  got  tools  in  plenty.  I  have  never  dreamed  of 
such  a  procession.    It  was  splendid." 

"Yes." 

"What  a  symbolic  flight!"  said  Tallien.  "Crowns  and 
miniver  trains  and  heirs-apparent.  His  heirship  is  of 
heaven." 

"I'd  never  kiU  a  child." 

"I'd  stamp  out  the  breed." 

"You  are  ciniel  and  new  to  your  honors.  Some  public; 
men  can't  stomach  approval' 


j> 


i88  TORCHLIGHT 

Tallien  bit  his  lips  and  kept  silence.  He  hated  the  blue- 
lipped  Samaritan  who  would  not  have  a  hand  in  killing 
children.  Who  cared  a  damn — one  way  or  another?  He 
looked  around  the  melancholy  room  filled  with  a  sickly, 
indescribable  odor  of  sweat,  blood,  spilled  liquors  and 
discharged  cartridges. 

"I  am  your  man,"  he  said  breezily,  "your  very  stanch 
man.  I  am  heart  and  soul  with  you.  Let  them  live!" 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "We'll  turn  the  children  out 
to  grass  and  turn  them  out  good  patriots  at  the  same 
time — there  is  a  notable  scheme!  One  family,  one  ador- 
ing family,  black  and  white,  turned  drabby  gray.  Will 
they  mix  easily?"     He  laughed  again. 

A  door  creaked  sharply. 

Tallien  fingered  his  loaded  pistol.  "It  is  not  safe  here. 
One  of  those  blackguardly  Swiss  may  be  alive.  I  am  no 
match  for  a  trained  soldier." 

Robespierre  rose  languidly. 

"Any  man  could  beat  you,"  he  said  slowly. 

"The  citizen  is  pleased  to  have  his  little  joke." 

It  was  so  dark  they  could  not  see  each  other's  faces. 

Robespierre  jumped  deftly  aside.  "No,  my  friend. 
The  time  is  not  ripe — you  must,  we  must  both  cultivate 
patience." 

"I  did  nothing." 

"We  never  do  anything  when  we  fail  or  are  detected. 
I  will  trouble  you  for  your  pistol." 

Blankly  staring,  Tallien  obeyed. 

Robespierre  very  carefully  unloaded  it.  "Shooting  is 
bad  form.     Another  time  try  a  knife." 

Tallien  with  a  cold  hand  accepted  his  now  harmless 
weapon.     "You  leave  me  unarmed,"  he  said,  politely. 

"No,  you  carry  my  secrets.  I'd  kill  you  with  pleasure, 
but  unfortunately  I  cannot  manage  without  your  as- 
sistance." 

Tallien  puffed  out  his  chest.  "We  pull  pretty  evenly," 
he  agreed. 

They  got  over  their  little  difference  pretty  easily.    Life 


REVOLUTION  189 

and  death  at  that  moment  wasn't  of  great  consequence. 
(Man's  an  adaptive  creature.)  They  passed  off  the 
"joke"  with  an  awful  jest  at  the  expense  of  a  dead  patriot 
— shot  through  the  heart — lying  cheek  by  jowl  with  his 
mortal  enemy  .  .  .  th-ey'd  come  to  death  grips,  the  king's 
man  and  the  people's  man.  "There  is  something  very 
godlike  about  the  people,"  said  Tallien,  slipping  the  musi- 
cal box  into  his  coat-pocket. 

Robespierre  nodded  his  head,  waggislily.  They  were 
bent  on  good  sport — and  good-fellowship.  Their  sparring 
(call  it  murder)  had  only  been  a  tentative  trial  of  strength 
.  .  .  they  pulled  pretty  equally — as  Tallien  had  admitted 
(rather  regretfully). 

They  talked  affably  for  a  while  of  the  situation. 

"The  Luxembourg,"  said  Robespierre,  "is  too  windy  a 
nest  for  our  exotic  birds." 

Tallien  whistled.     "Dear  little  birds,"  he  said. 

*'The  Temple  is  far  more  suitable.  A  cosy,  quiet  place, 
■with  thick  walls  and  strong  doors — eh.'"' 

"Not  bad." 

"Have  you  a  better  project.'"' 

"Have  you,  sir?" 

*'Come  now,  come  now,  none  of  your  playfulness,  sir." 

*'There's  the  Conciergerie,  you  know — very  dark,  very 
"wholesome  for  froward  majesty.  I  suppose  they'll  keep 
their  titles,  complimentary  titles  .f" 

*'Damn  me,  if  they  will !" 

"Spoken  as  a  true  patriot.     It'd  be  silly,  very  silly. 

"There's  the  incredible  majesty  of  example,  citizen,  to 
be  taken  into  consideration."  Robespierre  cleared  his 
throat  and  spat  on  the  floor.  *'That  fat  booby  shall  set 
the  record  and  take  a  prominent  place  in  history.  I'd 
be  the  last  man  to  deny  him  his  privileges.  The  descend- 
ant of  how  many  kings?" 

"Sixty,  I  believe;  quite  a  show." 

"It  is  something  to  be  the  pick  of  the  bunch."  Robes- 
pierre edged  forward  on  his  seat,  leaned  over  the  spat- 
tered deal  table  and  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  Tal- 


3J> 


»> 


190  TORCHLIGHT 

lien's  arm.  **He'll  also  be  the  last,"  he  murmured.  In  the 
light  of  the  moon,  drifting  through  the  clouds,  his  pale 
eyes  had  an  extraordinai'y  glassy  stare. 

TaUien  shook  himself  free  from  the  detaining  hand. 
(He  couldn't  help  himself — damn  liim  if  he  could!) 
"What  an  honor!"  he  said  reverently.  "How  will  he 
take  it.?" 

Robespierre  screwed  his  face  into  that  tentative  ex- 
pression which  he  called  a  smile.  Anyhow  he  bared  his 
little,  pointed,  discolored  teeth  to  the  moon.  "Well,  my 
friend ;  very  well,"  he  said. 

The  moon  covered  her  face.  Only  the  lantern  twinkled 
between  the  two  men,  and  a  few  unmentionable  thoughts. 
They  still  had  a  few  subjects  they  couldn't  speak  about 
.  .  .  the  fruit  wasn't  ripe.  They  could  wait,  they  could 
always  wait,  as  Deputy  Tallien  would  say,  with  his  large 
smile,  and  unmense  good-nature.  He  had  also  a  fund  of 
optimism.  And  you  must  say  he  had  something  to  back 
him.     Considering  everything,  his  affair  had  marched. 

At  that  moment — both  the  gentlemen's  nerves  were 
pretty  tightly  braced — it  had,  with  one  thing  and  another 
been  a  racketing  day — a  tremendous  crash,  accompanied 
by  demoniac  shouts  and  no  less  demoniac  cheers,  rent  the 
air.  It  came  from  the  direction  of  the  Place  Dauphin, 
■where  stood  the  great  equestrian  statue  of  His  Majesty 
Louis  XrV. 

Tallien  sprang  to  the  open  window. 

"Hurrah !"  he  cried  exultantlv,  warino^  his  hand  above 
his  head.  "They've  got  him  down !  I  always  said  that 
if  you  left  the  people  to  themselves  they'd  prove  their 
quality.  Great,  I  call  it — great !  Hear  'em  ?  Lusty 
devils.  And  they'll  want  more.  Broken  stones  aren't 
broken  heads — ha !  ha !  I  see  their  little  game.  God  for- 
bid that  I'd  interfere  with — justice." 

Robespierre,  who  had  also  got  up,  didn't  say  a  word 
until  the  other  man  had  buried  his  transports  in  a  checked 
handkerchief.  It  was  a  green  handkerchief  with  bars  of 
yellow,  red  and  blue — very  vivid,  very  large. 


KEVOLUTION  191 

While  Tallien  was  blowing  his  big  nose — you  remember 
the  shape? — Robespierre  spoke,  without  the  least  exag- 
geration. 

"Thej  put  him  up  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  a  day," 
he  said. 

Tallien  flung  back  his  head  and  pocketed  his  handker- 
chief. His  very  gesture  was  extravagant.  "A  hundi-ed 
years,"  he  said.     "What's  a  hundred  years!" 

"We  shan't  last  as  long,"  said  Robespierre,  sorrowfully 
(and  accurately). 

Tallien  stepped  back  from  the  window — the  din  had 
somewhat  subsided.  In  the  gardens  below,  men  were  run- 
ning to  and  fro  in  the  moonlight — such  a  coy  Lady  Moon. 
On  this  night,  of  all  nights,  was  she  flirting  with  poor 
human  beings?     It  looked  like  it. 

Tallien  dug  Robespierre  playfully  in  the  ribs.  He  was 
in  high  good-humor,  as  the  father  might  be  at  the  un- 
expected prowess  of  his  family — and  who  tickles  'em ! 
.  .  .  "We  aren't  stone  images,  eh?"  he  said.  "But  true 
flesh  and  blood  patriots."  He  peered  inquisitively  into 
the  other's  pallid  face,  shaking  his  head  dolefully.  "Not 
much  blood  and  not  much  flesh.  Drink  cream,  cream — " 
— he  curled  his  tongue  over  his  thick,  smooth  lips — "and 
other  things.     I'm  thirsty.     Let's  satisfy  ourselves — eh?'* 

Stepping  very  carefully  over  the  dead  and  the  dying — 
one  of  the  dying  did  actually  tura  at  sight  of  them,  but 
only  to  look  away — they  made  their  way  unchallenged 
into  the  public  street.  They  had  come  by  way  of  the 
private  gardens,  where  the  queen's  roses  bloomed,  washed 
in  dew.  It  was  a  warm  night — full  of  scents,  by  no  means 
all  agreeable.  Robespierre  shivered.  The  mortally 
wounded  man,  who'd  moved,  had  given  given  him  a  turn 
...  it  was  a  very  sad  world.  He  wondered  if  the  people 
hadn't  overstepped  their  privileges  in  breaking  up  that 
monumental  piece  of  sculpture?  It  was  bordering  on 
extravagance.  Robespierre  didn't  like  extravagance. 
.  .  .  Tallien  was  rejoicing — he  was  heart  and  soul  with 


:i92  TORCHLIGHT 

the  people — he  was  one  of  them.  He  walked  very  upright, 
swinging  his  long  arms  to  and  fro. 

"Put  out  the  lantern,"  said  Robespierre. 

"Exactly,"  murmured  Tallien,  in  a  dreamy  voice.  "We 
(don't  want  to  be  seen."    He  did  as  he  was  told. 

The  narrow  Rue  Santerre  loomed  darkly  in  front  of 
them.  They  hurried  on.  Only  once  did  Tallien  place  a 
warning  hand  on  his  companion's  narrow  shoulders. 
"Listen,"  he  said;  "what  is  that?" 

In  the  street  corner  there  sat  a  beggar,  huddled  up  in 
his  rags.     He  was  deplorably  crippled. 

"Singing  all  to  yourself,  citizen?"  said  Tallien,  pleas- 
antly. "It  is  a  great  night,  I'll  allow  it,  a  prophetic 
night." 

Tallien  slipped  a  piece  of  money  into  the  beggar's  hand. 
He  thanked  him  perfunctorily  and  continued  his  melan- 
choly dirge.  The  words  clipped  into  Tallien's  memory. 
Long  after  he'd  flung  himself  on  his  bed  they  haunted 
him — pshaw ! 

Le  front  ride,  les  cheveiilx  gris, 

Les  sourcilz  cheuz,  les  yeulx  estains. 

Qui  faisoient  regars  et  ris, 

Dont  maintz  marchous  furent  attains, 

Nez  courbe,  de  beaulte  loingtains, 

OreiUes  pendans   et  moussues, 

Le  vis  pally,  mort  et  destains, 

Menton  fence,  joues  peaussues. 


BOOK  II 
TERROR 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

XT'OU  may  remember  that  we  casually  mentioned  the 
•*■  presence,  at  the  Gala  performance  at  the  Odeon,  of 
a  young  officer  (sucking  an  orange)  whose  appearance, 
despite  his  admittedly  fine  eyes,  had  not  impressed  Made- 
moiselle Claire  favorably. 

We  are  sorry  to  say  that  this  incomprehensible  young 
man  (even  at  a  considerable  distance  of  time  we  are  still 
rather  under  his  sway)  had,  through  his  own  negligence, 
been  obliged  to  send  in  liis  papers  and  resign  his  com- 
mission in  his  majesty's  army.  He  had  outstayed  his 
leave  at  Ajaccio,  and  in  consequence  we  find  him  prowling 
round  Paris,  in  the  wake  of  a  revolutionary  rabble,  with 
nothing  better  to  do  than  to  speculate  in  real  estate  prop- 
erty and  the  probable  date  of  his  next  meal. 

He  was  deplorably  dressed.  Deprived  of  his  uniform 
he'd  eked  out  his  civilian  clothes  with  such  parts  of  his 
military  outfit  as  might  pass  muster.  His  small,  neat  feet 
were  cased  in  large,  clumsy  field  boots  (little  men  love 
big  boots,  and  walk  heavily — it  gives  them  consequence), 
a  slouch  hat,  thrust  low  on  liis  brow,  almost  concealed  his 
fine  eyes,  but  gave  free  egress  to  his  wisps  of  untidy  dark 
hair — a  forelock  hung  right  over  one  of  his  nicely  pen- 
ciled eyebrows.  In  spite  of  his  slovenly  dress,  he  was  a 
good-looking  boy — not  tall  but  well-proportioned,  and 
well-knit.  He  was  no  weakling,  which  makes  his  plight 
seem  all  the  sadder.  His  lips — though  IVIlle.  Claire  hadn't 
noticed  them — were  "good" — not  good  in  a  religious  sense, 
but  from  an  artistic  point  of  view;  they  were  very  well 
shaped — so  was  his  nose;  for  the  matter  of  that,  so  was 
his  face.  We  repeat  it,  he  was  a  handsome  boy,  in  spite 
of  his  wicked  little  scowl.    He  habitually  scowled  at  every- 

195 


196  TORCHLIGHT 

one.  He  walked  hastily  forward,  covering  the  ground 
with  extraordinarily  long  strides,  not  graceful.  There 
was  something  angular  about  his  movements.  He  seemed 
to  be  in  a  fever  of  impatience — probably  with  himself. 
We  can  imagine  him  belaboring  his  own  mind — "Get  on — 
get  on,  can't  you?" 

The  whole  world  was  topsy-turvy,  and  when  the  world 
is  topsy-turvy  there  is  always  a  chance  for  an  alert  young 
man  to  make  his  mark.  "Get  on — get  on !"  he  mumbled 
fiercely,  digging  his  small,  finely-shaped  hands  deep  into 
the  pockets  of  his  deplorably  shabby  coat. 

"I  will!"  he  called  aloud,  considerably  startling  a  dear 
old  lady  who  was  crossing  the  road  in  front  of  him.  He 
must  have  bawled.  Lots  of  people  were  bawling  on  that 
day.  The  king,  the  queen,  and  the  rest  of  the  royal 
family,  had  just  gone  into  residence  in  the  Temple.  All 
the  state  prisons,  large  and  small,  were  chock-full  with 
suspected  individuals  of  the  hated  class.  It  was  sufficient 
to  be  of  that  class  to  come  under  suspicion.  A  coroneted 
handkerchief  would  have  been  fatal  in  the  mean  Rue  des 
Quatre  Vents — one  of  those  narrow  streets  which  cut 
through  old  Paris. 

It  was  a  bleak,  poverty-struck  street.  Many  hingeless 
shutters  flapped  in  the  wind — here  and  there  a  few  dilapi- 
dated shops,  principally  dealing  in  cheap  food  commodi- 
ties ;  a  tailor  not  above  patching — a  cobbler  who  never 
dreamed  of  doing  anything  else;  a  public-house  with  a 
queer  sign  hanging  over  the  door,  representing  a  blue- 
skinned,  gold-mottled  cow  with  enormous  poached-egg 
eyes.  An  ancient  house,  built  of  solid  black  oak,  with 
its  gable  towards  the  street.  .  .  . 

Not  far  off  from  this  hostlery  a  pawnbroker  hung  out 
his  golden  balls.  His  little  shop  was  approached  from  the 
street  itself  by  a  flight  of  steep  stone  stairs — his  little 
shop-window  was  crowded  with  a  heterogeneous  collection 
of — priceless  treasures ! 

It  was  the  day  of  turning  the  gentry  into  prisons  and 
turning  out  their  family  effects  into  the  street.     Deputy 


TERROR  197 

TalHen  (very  kindly)  was  at  the  very  moment  enlarging 
his  repositories  of  Public  Safety.  Could  anything  sound 
better  than  a  Repository  of  Public  Safety?  The  very 
name  was  a  voucher  for — thieving.  All  that  came  out  of 
those  state  warehouses  went  into  Deputy  Tallien's  private 
pocket.  In  his  department  the  Constitution  allowed  him 
complete  control.  The  right  honorable  member  was  a 
conspicuous  patriot.  "A  humble  instrument,"  said  Tal- 
lien — but  that  was  only  his  modesty.  Robespierre  called 
him  a  blusterer.  Extraordinary  how  some  men,  in  spite 
of  taking  up  a  modest  position,  appear  puffed  with  un- 
wholesome pride.  I  assure  you,  after  August  the  tenth, 
there  was  really  no  holding  Deputy  Tallien.  His  breezy 
good-nature  was  almost  suffocating — his  ideas  bewilder- 
ing— one  or  two  moderate  men,  such  as  Camille  Des- 
moulins,  held  their  credulous  breath.  No,  no,  no — he 
couldn't  go  to  such  lengths.  There  is  a  limit  even  in — 
politics;  a  limit  to  liberty,  fraternity,  equality.  The 
moderates  shuddered  at  the  shadow  of  a  rumor.  Good- 
natured  Tallien  was  immensely  tickled.  (He  did  hate  a 
slacker.)  He  would  purse  his  fat  lips  and  look  grave. 
Then  he'd  speak  (and  write)  very  feelingly  in  very  choice 
language — each  word  a  firebrand  in  the  cause  of  blessed 
justice.  At  that  particular  moment  his  partisans  con- 
sisted entirely  of  men  who  stopped  at  nothing  .  .  .  not 
one  of  them  looked  upon  bloodshed  as  evil.  .  .  .  "To  the 
pure  of  heart  all  things  are  pure,"  said  Deputy  Tallien, 
raising  his  large  hand  and  making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
Somewhere,  at  the  back  of  the  crowd,  a  hysterical  woman 
might  whimper.  Some  women — even  among  those  who 
stop  at  nothing — can't  control  their  nerves, 
t  Ci-devant  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  sprang  up  the  pawn- 
i  broker's  steps,  pushed  the  door  open,  and  strode  across 
the  little  shop  towards  a  man — probably  the  proprietor 
— who  was  seated  behind  a  crowded  counter — the  whole 
place  was  piled  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  goods — reading 
'a  copy  of  the  People's  Friend. 

He  took  the  little  delicately-wrought  silver  cross,  set 


198  TORCHLIGHT 

with  turquoises,  which  his  customer  offered  him,  awk- 
wardly, over  the  counter. 

"Poor  stones.  We've  no  call  for  these  articles,"  he 
said.     "Where  does  it  come  from.'"* 

"Corsica." 

"Two  francs." 

The  young  man  trembled  in  his  turn,  and  turned  a  fiery 
red  under  his  sallow  skin.  The  red  touched  up  his  eyes 
until  they  glowed  like  lit-up  lamps.  The  effect  startled 
the  pawnbroker.     He  leered  at  the  young  man. 

"Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow,"  he  said.  "And  such  glorious 
times,  too." 

"Grand,  citoyen." 

"I  needn't  ask,  you  are  one  of  us." 

The  young  man  laughed  sarcastically — at  his  own  ex- 
pense. "As  you  see,  a  very  tower  of  strength.  I  want 
ten  francs." 

The  pawnbroker  waved  his  hand  round  his  premises. 
"Look,"  he  grunted.  "It  isn't  business,  it's  a  deluge. 
That  bureau  over  there,  inlaid  with  real  gold  mounts — 
heavy  as  an  elephant — I  helped  to  remove  it  myself — three 
francs.  They  wanted  more.  Tcha ! — beggars  can't  be 
choosers." 

He  took  up  his  paper  and  shook  his  head — it  wasn't 
business  but  infirmity — and  chuckled.  "Movin'  fine,"  he 
muraiured,  "movin'  grand." 

The  young  man  stamped  his  foot. 

"Listen !" 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  whipped  out  a  clasp-knife  from 
his  pocket  and  severed  a  couple  of  buttons  from  his  faded 
bRie  coat.  He  laid  them  down  very  gently  on  the  counter. 
"They  are  silver,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  melodious  as  music. 
His  gentleness  struck  the  pawnbroker  favorably.  He  laid 
down  the  juicy  paper — it  really  might  have  been  steeped 
in  blood — and  he  inclined  his  heart  towards  charity. 

He  smiled,  disclosing  one  very  long  tooth. 

"There  you  are,  citizen.  For  an  old  friend  I'll  make 
it  seven  francs.    Five  francs  for  rent — two  for  a  banquet." 


TERROR  199 

The  young  man  without  a  word  accepted  his  money  and 
his  ticket  and  clattered  out  of  the  dirty  little  shop. 

"There's  a  cub  for  you,'*  soliloquized  the  pawnbroker. 
*'His  eyes  did  it."  He  was  sensibly  annoyed  over  his 
generosity.     He'd  paid  him  as  a  prince. 

Paris  labored  during  those  first  days  of  mob  rule — it 
very  soon  shook  off  the  feeling — under  bewilderment  and 
wealth.  Money  was  easy;  you  stole  and  you  bought; 
you  stole  and  you  sold — in  either  case  the  middleman 
paid — he  of  aquiline  nose,  lace  ruffles,  and  haughty  con- 
tempt. "Ba-ah !  ha-a !"  I  wish  we  could  give  you  the 
faintest  impression  of  the  populace's  scathing  joy.  They 
went — the  greater  part — hungry'  to  bed  (a  delusion,  sirs, 
merely  a  delusion),  hugging  their  joy  to  their  delirious 
hearts  and  empty  stomachs.  The  majority  didn't  possess 
beds,  neither  food  nor  beds — ^but  each  brute  man — accord- 
ing to  his  brutality — could  dream  of  vengeance — and  each 
she-wolf  could — according  to  her  imagination — see  her- 
self and  her  starving  little  ones  bedded  in  priceless  lace 
and  thickest  blankets,  or  eating  their  fill  of  hot  meat 
and  pastry.  *  "'^ 

We  can  imagine  Lieutenant  Bonaparte's  contempt  of 
these  ignorant  wretches — you  don't  want  to  be  taught  to 
dislike  feeble  opposition  and  ear-splitting  howls — he'd 
followed  the  people  out  of  idle  curiosity  (he'd  plenty  of 
time  on  his  hands).  Once  edged  in  that  packed  evil-smell- 
ing mass — he'd  had  a  good  front  place — on  June  the 
twentieth — he'd  seen  the  king  in  his  palace — mounted  on 
a  table — clad  in  a  cap  of  liberty — red  wool,  with  a  tassel 
to  it — negotiating  with  the  rioters.  It  wasn't  a  princely 
sight,  but  rather  a  sickening  one.  It  had  sickened  Bona- 
parte, filling  him  with  consuming  rage.  At  length  he 
had  boiled  over. 

He  caught  a  firm  hold  of  pale  Boisgaloup's  shoulder. 
"Ah,"  he  hissed,  "look  at  him!"  (he  pointed  to  Louis' 
well-known  features).  "What  a  loathly  exliibition !  He 
deserves  all  he'll  get.  He's  a  blockhead!  He  is  a  fool! 
A  prompt  fusillade  would  have  saved  him  his  dignity  and 


200  TORCHLIGHT 

saved  him  his  crown,  and  there  he  sits — inviting  the 
laughter  of  the  world." 

No  doubt  he  was  right;  he  often  was. 

The  second  time  he  had  followed  the  people  was  on 
August  the  tenth,  black  August,  or  red  August,  or  heav- 
enly August,  whichever  you  like.  A  vast  deal  of  difference 
in  opinion  in  Paris  on  that  date;  some  rejoiced  and  some 
staggered  back,  aghast.  The  king  ate  his  supper — boiled 
beef  and  vegetable  stew — with  good  appetite,  in  his  pro- 
visional three  rooms  under  the  roof  of  his  own  august 
Constitutional  Parliament.  If  he'd  opened  the  door  a 
crack  he  could  have  heard  the  House,  lusty  and  loud- 
voiced,  in  fiery  debate.    He  didn't, 


CHAPTER    XXVni 

From  The  Prison  of  La  Force, 

The  1st  September,  1192. 

To    THE    ClTOYENNE    TeREZIA   FoNTENAY,   NEE    CaRRABUS 

Yes,  my  dear  Terezia,  such  is  the  fate  of  your  old  admirer, 
Ravoral — eating  the  bread  of  dependence  (and  vile  at  that) 
— in  a  National  penthouse.  Three  weeks  is  not  a  great 
scrap  of  life  to  a  man  close  on  eighty.  The  days  of  polite 
deception  are  as  dead  as  honor  in  much-racked  France.  I 
would  not  cultivate  a  pretense,  living  as  I  do  in  a  tomb,  so 
I  will  quite  happily  drop  my  mask  of  youth  with  the  other 
pretty  insincerities  of  my  former  existence. 

I  would  have  written  before,  but  paper  ches  nous  is  at  a 
premium,  and  lamentably  rare  in  our  extremely  select  circle. 
Two  passages  off,  behind  a  stone  wall,  fourteen  feet  thick,  I 
have  as  a  neighbor  our  beautiful  and  ill-starred  Princesse  de 
Lamballe.  For  no  reason  at  all,  except  to  annoy  her  majesty, 
she  was  removed  from  the  Temple,  some  time  last  week,  if 
I  remember  rightly.  Behind  prison  walls  time  has  but  little 
consequence,  and  life  seen  through  a  prison  window  appears 
curiously  remote.  We  have  all  grown,  let  us  say  wiser.  Youth 
and  age  meet  as  equals.  And  every  insult,  every  hardship, 
every  sanguinary  rumor  we  accept  without  complaint.  I  have 
never  before  cherished  the  idea  of  death  as  a  friend.  Death, 
in  the  full  play  of  existence,  is  an  unsubstantial  shadow — 
here  he  sports  a  merry  wit,  a  kindly,  fatherly  interest.  Morn- 
ing and  evening  we  read  our  destiny  (those  who  care  to  look) 
in  fhe  more  or  less  deep-grained  scowl  or  smile,  or  what  you 
will,  which  transfigures  kind  human  nature  into  a  veritable 
fiend.  The  turnkeys  are  all  as  transparent  as  blocks  of  ice 
touched  by  spring  sunshine.  Sometimes — very  rarely — money 
will  melt  their  hatred  into  complicity.  If  you  remember,  the 
Duchesse  dAngre\j^  is  passionately  fond  of  gambling  and 
plays  for  high  stakes.  At  an  infinite  price  she  has  secured 
a  pack  of  playing-cards,  and  is  now  happily  occupied  winning 

201 


202  TORCHLIGHT 

lOU's  from  her  circle  of  intimates.  I  am  writing  by  a  truly 
villainous  light,  at  one  lop-sided  barrel — madame  is  presid- 
ing at  another,  dealing  out  her  cards  with  her  beautiful  gem- 
laden  hands.  We  keep  ourselves  as  tidy  as  we  can.  We  know 
each  other  by  our  voices,  our  gestures,  our  bons  mots  and 
our  infinite  rapacity  of  ignoring  the  present.  We  never  talk 
of  the  future.  As  none  of  us  are  religious,  the  subject  hardly 
attracts  us. 

Now  to  matters  more  interesting.  How  are  you  yourself? 
The  last  I  heard  of  you  was  a  perfectly  ridiculous  report  that 
poor  Devin  had  engaged  your  attention.  No  one  has  credited 
the  scandal.  As  I  tell  them,  Madame  de  Fontenay  has  too 
much  savoir  vivre  to  commit  such  a  solecism.  Anyhow,  it  is 
an  affair  which  cannot  last.  I  know  you,  my  friend.  I  love 
you,  I  judge  you  and  I  find  you  cold.  A  heart  is  the  one 
thing  no  one  can  grow  from  seed.  A  heart  must  be  born  in 
the  full  flower  of  perfection.  If  I  am  cruel,  forgive  me.  Love 
will  never  cause  you  discomfort,  but  no  doubt  infinite  happi- 
ness. Happiness  is  such  an  exquisitely  individual  expression. 
You  are  the  personification  of  enduring  pleasure.  I  can  see 
you — always  supposing  you  are  allowed  to  live — satisfying 
yourself  for  a  great  many  years,  treasuring  your  beauty  and 
directly  ministering  to  the  welfare  of  others.  Such  as  you, 
Terezia,  are  of  great  importance.  You  represent,  if  I  may 
say  so,  the  healthy,  joy-giving  animal,  barren  only  on  one 
point.  Which  point,  you  may  ask  ?  You  cannot  suffer.  Phys- 
ically, mentally,  you  are  cased  in  metal.  Such  strength !  I 
am  in  a  mood  to  cavil  at  death  because  I  shall  be  debarred 
from  watching  your  interesting  career.  Such  as  you  carry 
men  far — or  else  strangle  them.  You  will  be  worshiped,  but 
never  hated — who  hates  a  perfectly  placid  idol?  Fools,  may- 
be. In  your  world  we  will  exclude  fools,  primarily  because 
they  will  invariably  flock  around  you.  I  repeat  it,  my  friend 
— and  believe  me,  I  am  not  without  experience — you  are  born 
to  an  enviable  lot,  if  you  can  keep  your  lovely  head  above 
water. 

Honestly,  I  advise  you  to  let  Devin  carry  you  off  to  Eng- 
land or  Spain.  The  outskirts  of  Paris  are  charming  in  sum- 
mer, but  in  autumn  the  country  strikes  one  as  damp  and  dull 
and  lifeless.  After  all,  life  is  a  tremendous  possession.  Ass 
that  I  am,  for  eighty  years  I  have  carried  this  inestimable 
gift  about  my  person  without  realizing  its  value. 


TERROR  203 

Seriously  speaking,  I  have  never  utilized  my  freedom.  Con- 
vention is  the  one  thing  all  libertines  respect.  For  instance — 
the  card-party  yonder,  and  the  crowd  lining  the  damp  walls, 
elegantly  passing  the  time  before  dinner  in  polite  conversation 
(un  plat  de  jour,  probably  soup  a  la  Revolution  —  a  very 
noxious  mixture  served  in  wooden  bowls  with  or  without  pew- 
ter spoons),  are  brilliantly  conventional.  It  is  our  creed,  our 
god,  our  genius.  There  is  no  genius  so  great  as  the  art  of 
hiding  suffering;  no  greater  test  of  courage.  Why  should  I 
complain?  I  am  one  of  a  company  destined  to  attract  the 
admiration  of  future  ages  for  all  time,  never  their  sickly  com- 
passion. You  dole  out  compassion  to  a  poor  thriftless  tear- 
drenched  beggar — one  who  creates  his  own  miserable  atmos- 
phere by  his  own  worthlessness.  We  pity  the  poor  wretch. 
We  give  him  of  our  charity.  But  who  would  dare  to  pity  the 
demoiselles  St.  Innocents,  for  example  (they  are  at  this  mo- 
ment standing  opposite  me  and  laughing  deliciously)  ? — dis- 
tant cousins  of  mine — charming  little  girls,  one  nineteen,  the 
other  eighteen,  dressed  alike  in  pink — soiled  pink — who  cares  ! 
They  are  as  fresh  as  flowers  in  May — poor  pale  mites,  more 
than  half-starved.  (If  it  were  not  beneath  my  dignity,  I 
would  love  to  throw  that  unspeakable  soup  in  the  face  of  our 
maitre  d'hotel!)  Terezia,  as  a  last  favor  I  beg  of  you  to  try 
and  send  us  some  of  your  ripe,  rich  fruit.  The  greengages 
at  Fontenay  are  admirable.  The  grapes  of  no  second-rate 
quality — and  the  quantity!  (Have  I  actually  refused  a  bunch 
because  I  was  too  lazy  to  eat  them?)  I  would  like  to  feed 
my  charming  cousins. 

They  tell  us  we  are  going  soon  to  be  removed  to  another 
prison — any  variety  is  welcome.  The  ladies  are  well  satisfied. 
For  myself,  I  consider  the  news  alarming.  The  ladies,  in 
self-defense,  never  deign  to  glance  at  our  wretched  warders. 
I  am  not  so  fastidious.  I  have  seen  many  disgusting  sights 
in  my  days;  but  never  a  more  blood-curdling  spectacle  than 
Jean  Lecou's  jutting  jaw  and  retreating  forehead,  as,  with 
closed  eyes,  he  gives  us  his  little  information.  No  mask !  To 
me  his  eyes  are  wide  open,  revealing  untold  depths.  God 
spare  my  cousins !  Dear  Terezia,  as  you  know,  I  have  always 
had  an  unholy  affection  for  youth  and  beauty.  Take  this  as 
my  last  will  and  testament.  Give  me  a  thought  now  and  again 
— who  knows  if  I  am  not  your  master  ?  In  truth  I  am !  Be- 
neath my  crusty  baldness,  my  countless  wrinkles,  my   arti- 


204  TORCHLIGHT 

ficial  manner,  I  still  carry  a  heart.  A  heart — fancy,  Terezia, 
my  beautiful  pagan — a  heart!  (You  see,  I  still  hark  back 
to  the  same  subject.)  A  heart  is  of  incalculable  importance. 
Without  a  heart  you  lose  the  key  of  individuality,  you  can 
never  unlock  the  doors  of  art — never  unstop  deaf  ears.  Art 
is  as  unteachable  as  a  soul  is  unprocurable.  Yet  my  faith  in 
you  is  absolute.  You  will  never  meet  failure,  because  you 
will  never  understand  defeat.  How  I  envy  you  your  machin- 
ery, your  digestion,  your  colossal  conceit!  I  am  not  playing 
with  words  or  with  you.  I  am  speaking  in  solemn  earnest. 
May  you  live! 

Your  sincere  lover, 

Paul  Honore  Marie  de  Ravoral. 

Poor  old  Ravoral  had  been  dead  some  three  months 
when  Terezia  received  this  characteristic  letter.  She  had 
heard  of  the  horrors — wept  a  good  many  tears,  and  writ- 
ten at  once  to  her  people  at  Bordeaux.  It  was  about  time 
she  looked  them  up.  She  would  rather  like  to  meet  Uncle 
Galabert  again,  and  see  her  cousins  (to  whom  until  now 
she  had  never  given  a  thought).  She  wrote  with  dutiful 
affection  to  the  head  of  the  family — dear  papa's  only 
brother,  a  prosperous  and  strictly  honest  tradesman,  or 
merchant,  which   sounds  more  distinguished. 

It  was  a  miracle  that  Ravoral's  letter  ever  reached  her. 
Where  had  it  lain  between  the  first  of  September  and  the 
twentieth  of  November.?  Three  months — less  than  three 
months,  but,  oh,  God,  what  a  vast  unbridgeable  gulf  I  At 
night  Terezia,  even  with  her  lack  of  imagination,  would 
dream  of  butchery  and  terror  unspeakable.  She  would 
wake  and  wring  her  hands  and  bury  her  face  in  her  scented 
pillow,  bury  it  deep  in  the  cool  fair  linen  and  try  to  forget 
the  plight  of  the  people  she  had  known — actually  known, 
taken  by  the  hand,  kissed,  entertained  with  all  kinds  of 
nonsense.  She  remembered  the  ridiculous  deportment  of 
Madame  d'Angreve  and  the  respect  she  had  always  felt 
for  her,  though  the  duchess  had  not  returned  the  com- 
pliment. 

The  rain  beating  on  her  window-panes,  the  wind  sighing 


TERROR  205 

under  the  discolored  elms  in  her  famous  garden — all  com- 
bined to  keep  her  awake.  She  would  fancy  she  heard 
stealthy  steps  in  the  passage  outside;  in  another  moment 
her  door  would  be  forced  open  .  .  .  entrance  demanded 
in  the  name  of  the  king  .  .  .  no,  no,  she  was  crazy ! 
There  was  no  king  in  France.  Robespierre  and  Marat 
and  all  those  "creatures"  ruled  a  mob  stark,  staring  mad. 
Didn't  they  howl  day  and  night  round  the  guillotine — the 
doctor's  Idea  transformed  to  actuality  on  an  appalling 
scale?  In  the  very  centre  of  Paris  they  had  raised  a 
scaffold,  and  the  knife  was  grinding  to  some  purpose.  It 
all  went  by  rote.  Samson  (was  not  that  his  name.'')  had 
on  the  whole  an  easy  task.  He  had  only  to  obey.  They 
had  all  to  obey.  Even  Terezia — the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  France — would  not  be  exempt  from  the  common  order. 
They  called  it  justice ! 

She  would  sit  up  in  bed,  her  heart  beating  to  suffocation. 
Her  nerves  were  shattered  (so  she  thought).  Had  she  no 
friend  in  the  whole  wide  world?  No  friend  among  the 
ruling  class? 

In  tliis  chaos  of  thought  her  quick  mind  lighted  on  a 
tall  young  man,  with  great  burning,  lascivious  eyes,  who 
had  once  upon  a  time  desired  her.  Terezia  was  an  adept 
at  construing  glances.  She  never  deceived  herself.  Men 
were  all  alike,  more  or  less.  They  all  loved  her.  Love 
is  power.  Could  she  not  get  speech  with  this  Tallien? 
She  would  finish  the  work  the  sight  of  her  beauty  had 
commenced.  He  would  save  her.  Tallien  was  a  noble 
young  man.  She  had  always  admired  his  physical 
strength,  his  aplomb,  his  audacity,  his  appalling  ignor- 
ance, so  brilliantly  veiled.  She  remembered  quite  well 
their  first  meeting  and  their  second.  In  the  midst  of  her 
nightmare  she  seemed  to  feel  the  touch  of  a  dew-laden 
rose  on  her  lips: — ^"My  first  kiss,"  only  a  whisper,  but 
a  whisper  of  lambent  fire.  .  .  . 

She  would  fall  asleep  greatly  comforted.  The  Terezias 
of  this  world  are  very  easily  consoled. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

"C^lTiN  the  most  heartless  woman  may  feel  a  natural 
■^  twinge  of  regret  at  the  thought  of  leaving  her  home 
— maybe  for  ever. 

Terezia,  leaving  Christina  working  feverishly  against 
time,  ran  downstairs  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  Her 
mind  was  all  in  a  turmoil.  She  was  feeling  excited,  elated 
at  the  prospect  of  an  adventure — all  the  better  if  danger- 
ous— she  was  sick  to  death  of  doing  nothing,  sick  to  death 
of  her  own  society,  her  deadly  lack  of  courtship.  She 
would  have  embraced  with  fervor  the  least  desirable  of 
her  lovers.  Had  Robespierre  appeared  behind  the  laurel 
hedge — mistily  pallid  in  the  moonlight — she  would  have 
greeted  him  without  fear.  She  would  have  reproved  him. 
She  was  no  coward — she,  Terezia ! 

She  stepped  out  on  the  desolate  terrace.  It  was  a  very 
quiet  night.  Nature  slept,  even  if  turbulent  humanity 
held  unholy  revel.  By  a  sharp  contrast  the  extensive 
grounds  of  the  chateau — the  distant  grove  of  elms,  the 
gleaming  sheet  of  water  and  the  long  stretch  of  undulating 
turf — had  a  peculiar  fascination.  The  peace  of  it  all  for 
a  brief  while  subjugated  Terezia's  vanity. 

She  held  out  her  hands  beseechingly,  a  thoroughly 
natural  gesture.  This  was  the  stage  of  her  daily  life,  the 
scene  of  her  triumphs,  the  theatre  of  her  vast  ennui.  She 
had  spent  five  years  of  her  precious  existence  at  Fontenay. 
Her  heart  went  out  to  the  beauty  of  the  night.  Her  eyes 
rested  on  the  grave  majesty  of  the  famous  trees,  and 
lingered  awhile  on  a  sheltered  seat  half  hidden  in  bower- 
ing  lilac-bushes. 

She  folded  her  hands  and  walked  decorously  down  the 
garden  path.  She  unlatched  the  postern  gate  and  made 
her  way  along  the  broad  elm  avenue.     She  was  not  afraid. 

206 


TERROR  207 

No  one  would  molest  her.  She  enjoyed  this  pilgrimage  of 
love  reluctant.  Her  whole  being  rose  in  an  inarticulate 
hymn  of  farewell.  Never  again  would  she  touch  this  ex- 
alted mood.  She  looked  up  at  the  giant  trees  with  misty 
affection.  They  were  old,  very  old  .  .  .  she  wondered 
how  old?  She  stood  for  a  moment  leaning  against  a  mas- 
sive trunk,  sunk  in  a  profound  reverie. 

She  was  leaving  her  home  for  ever.  She  had  entered  it 
as  a  young  bride,  joyously  confident  of  the  future;  her 
trust  had  been  ruthlessly  abused.  Leaning  against  the 
age-worn  tree,  her  own  youth  struck  her  as  pathetically 
real.  Would  she  ever  retrieve  the  confidence  or  her  early 
days?  Out  of  chaos  would  she  find  enduring  happi- 
ness? .  .  . 

Already  a  note  of  self-pity  disturbed  the  idealistic  ele- 
ment of  her  emotion.  She  brushed  her  despondency  aside, 
and  ran  fleet-footed  towards  the  mirrored  lake,  all  bathed 
in  a  ripple  of  moonshine.  The  tarnished  leaves  on  the 
great  trees  shining  like  burnished  jewels,  the  moss-grown 
boulders  and  the  reddish  bracken — an  echo  from  the  wil- 
derness beyond — struck  her  as  infinitel}-  beautiful.  It 
was  the  "clou"  of  the  park,  this  unexpected  dell  of  un- 
tamed nature.  Against  the  green  lawns,  silver-gray  in 
the  moonlight,  and  smooth  as  velvet,  the  tumbled  disorder 
of  natural  growth  struck  a  note  of  grand  relief. 

Terezia,  in  an  ecstasy  of  farewell,  stooped  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  lake,  and  dipped  her  fingers  in  the  cold  clear 
water.  She  gathered  a  chance  bramble,  gleaming  with 
red  berries — to  carry  back  as  a  memento.  "Good-by, 
dear  Fontenay,"  she  said.  "I  will  always  remember  you 
kindly.     Terezia  is  faithful  to  her  friends." 

Except  for  her  whispered,  whimsical  assurance  nothing 
broke  the  stillness.  It  was  so  quiet  that  it  frightened  her. 
She  fancied  she  saw  something  move  on  the  opposite  shore. 
She  caught  hold  of  her  petticoats  and  ran  swiftly,  finely, 
with  her  magnificent  length  of  limb,  her  chest  expanded, 
her  big  eyes  wide  open.  She  did  not  pause  for  breath 
until  she  was  safe  inside  the  lighted  vestibule. 


208  TORCHLIGHT 

Devin  came  out  of  his  room  and  looked  at  her. 

Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  ejes  extrajordinarily  bril- 
liant, her  heaving  bosom  firm  as  a  rock;  her  simple  dress 
clung  to  her  figure. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  he  asked. 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  lips.  "You  would  never  under- 
stand," she  said.  She  said  it  proudly.  She  was  genuinely 
sorry  to  say  good-by  to  Fontenay,  but  he  was  not  in- 
cluded. A  sudden  rancor  effaced  Terezia's  transcendent 
beauty.  She  was  no  longer  a  goddess  upholding  the  hid- 
den flame  of  life,  but  a  scowling  woman. 

He  watched  her  mount  the  staircase,  slowly,  heavily. 
"Why  does  she  run  about  madly,"  he  thought,  "and  over- 
tire  herself?" 


CHAPTER    XXX 

SOME  three  or  four  days  later,  if  you  had  been  happen- 
ing to  drive  into  Paris  (with  your  heart  in  your 
mouth),  you  might  have  passed  a  dilapidated  cart  on  two 
high  wheels,  harnessed  to  a  dejected  horse  and  driven  by 
an  old  woman. 

Beside  the  old  woman,  frankly  plebeian,  with  a  grim, 
toil-worn  face  and  capable  hands  (which  seemed  to  be 
perpetually  pulling  at  the  horse's  mouth),  sat  a  well- 
grown  girl.  She  was  very  poorly  dressed  and  yet  with  a 
certain  pretense  to  neatness.  Her  head  and  part  of  her 
face  were  covered  by  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  tied  se- 
curely under  her  chin.  Her  shapely  hands  were  very 
brown,  and  what  you  could  see  of  her  face  was  equally 
sunburned.  Her  stiff  bodice,  fastened  by  two  large  bone 
buttons,  revealed  folds  of  dubious  linen. 

"Hein!"  roared  the  old  woman.  "Get  on!"  giving  a 
merciless  tug  to  her  horse's  head  as  they  passed  a  convoy 
of  soldiers.  The  old  lady  evidently  meant  to  clatter  into 
Paris  by  noon,  and  also  to  exhibit  to  the  soldiers  the  gentle 
art  of  driving.  She  hung  on  to  the  reins,  whip  in  hand. 
Away  bolted  the  long-suffering  animal,  raising  a  cloud  of 
dust  and  nearly  overturning  the  cart. 

The  soldiers  laughed.  One  of  them  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  girl's  face,  as  the  cart  swung  past  him 
like  a  flash.  He  sang  out  a  greeting;  she  did  not  hear 
him,  as  she  clutched  wildly  at  her  seat  in  a  vain  endeavor 
to  steady  the  cart. 

"Do  be  careful,  Christina." 

At  the  bend  of  the  road  Christina  slackened  speed.  The 
horse  came  to  a  standstill  with  heaving  flanks. 

209 


210  TORCHLIGHT 

"That  was  a  close  shave.  Did  jou  see  him,  madame?'* 
said  she. 

Terezia  wiped  her  forehead  with  her  handkerchief  and 
said  that  she  was  horribly  frightened  and  had  seen  no 
one  except  some  dirty  soldiers. 

"In  charge  of  an  officer,  Captain  Longueville." 

"Adolf!"  cried  Terezia,  in  great  excitement,  looking 
back.     "Why  did  you  not  stop.?    He  is  my  friend " 

"A  pretty  pass  if  you  and  he  had  jumped  at  each  other 
with  a  kiss  and  a  hug!" 

"Do  I  look  very  ugly?" 

Instead  of  answering,  Christina  pulled  at  the  reins  and 
took  a  sharp  turn  round.  The  dejected  horse  pricked 
up  his  ears. 

"No,"  said  Terezia  firmly.     "Drive  on  to  Paris." 

"Well,  I  have  warned  you." 
^  Terezia,  in  spite  of  her  annoyance,  bestowed  a  fluttering 
kiss  somewhere  in  the  region  of  Christina's  left  ear. 

Christina  laid  her  disengaged  hand  on  the  knee  of  her 
wilful  mistress.  "Be  careful,  darling.  Don't  open  your 
mouth  if  you  can  help  it.  It  is  a  big  risk  we  are  taking 
and  I  doubt  its  issue." 

Terezia's  heart  fluttered  for  all  her  boasted  courage. 
Paris  struck  her  as  an  infinitely  strange,  and  rather  a 
terrible  place.  She  stared  at  the  broken  monuments,  the 
smashed  windows,  the  defaced  houses.  The  very  air 
seemed  tainted. 

A  great  many  of  the  shops  were  closed  and  a  large 
number  of  the  people  were  perambulating  the  streets, 
carrying  small  banners  in  their  hands,  or  minute  gaily- 
trimmed  sticks.  They  all  looked  more  or  less  cheerful. 
In  many  quarters  of  the  to^vn  arose  clouds  of  thick  smoke ; 
whoops,  shouts,  peals  of  harsh  laughter.  Terezia  shiv- 
ered. She  clasped  her  stained  hands  tightly  together, 
feeling  very  dismayed.  She  recognized  some  of  her  friends* 
houses,  recognized  them  in  spite  of  their  impossible  ap- 
pearance. Could  a  few  weeks  of  mob  rule,  or  mob  venge- 
ance, work  such  havoc?     How  forlorn  they  looked,  these 


TERROR  211 

spacious  mansions!  Through  the  curtainless  and  broken 
windows  the  Spirit  of  the  Past  had  spread  her  wings  and 
vanished — in  her  wake  the  bright  sunshine  of  a  fine 
morning. 

The  sunshine  seemed  to  deride  the  great  empty  houses. 

Where  were  their  owners? 

There  was  something  harrowing  in  this  ignoble  drive 
through  the  city  of  Paris.  No  one  paid  any  attention  to 
their  modest  turn-out.  Terezia  bent  her  head  lower  and 
pulled  her  handkerchief  well  over  her  face.  They  were 
passing  the  Temple.  She  did  not  dare  look  up,  yet  behind 
one  of  those  heavily-barred  windows  she  might  have  seen 
her  majesty,  looking  out  on  a  very  strange  world. 

At  that  moment  the  boom  of  cannon  rolled  away  in  the 
distance,  followed  by  ominous  silence.  The  sound  came 
from  the  Place  de  Revolution  (formerly  the  Place  Louis 
XV.).  It  was  the  signal  that  the  day's  work  had  begun. 
Terezia  dimly  recognized  its  significance. 

How  could  any  living  person,  she  thought  passionately, 
enjoy  seeing  his  fellow-creature's  head  cut  off!  It  was 
inhuman,  it  was  monstrous ! 

"To  the  Cardilacs',"  she  whispered.  She  longed  to  clasp 
Claire  in  her  arms  ...  to  assure  herself  that  Claire  was 
safe  and  well.  How  astonished  she  would  be  at  sight  of 
her! 

The  big  gates  of  the  Cardilacs'  mansion  were  wide  open. 
The  first  thing  Terezia  noticed  in  the  familiar  courtyard 
was  a  large  bed  of  autumn  dahlias,  a  bright  glow  of  color 
against  the  old  house.  The  flowers  seemed  to  welcome 
her,  to  dispel  her  uneasiness. 

The  hall  door  stood  open — wide  open.  Terezia  ran  up 
the  staircase,  calling  loudly: 

"Claire !     Claire !" 

She  forgot  Christina's  warning,  she  forgot  her  own 
danger. 

At  first  she  did  not  understand  this  voiceless  answer  to 
her  vague  question.  Her  friends  had  evidently  gone,  leav- 
ing their  house  in  very  great  disorder.    All  the  rooms  were 


212  TORCHLIGHT 

dismantled.  Terezia  looked  around  the  big  drawing-room 
with  her  childish  eyes  full  of  amazement.  What  was  the 
meaning  of  this  desolation? 

A  hand  seemed  to  clutch  her  throat.  She  trembled. 
Very  gently  she  opened  the  door  leading  into  the  dining- 
room.     "Claire,"  she  breathed  softly.     "Claire!" 

She  came  upon  a  human  being,  at  least  Terezia  supposed 
she  was  a  human  creature.  She  had  never  'seen  anyone 
like  her  before. 

By  the  window  she  sat,  this  terrible  woman.  She  was 
very  tall,  very  thin,  very  upright  and  hideously  ancient. 
Her  discolored  skin  hung  in  loose  furrows;  her  deep-set, 
still  piercing  eyes  were  shaded  by  a  few  wisps  of  dead- 
white  hair;  her  face  expressed  some  remorseless  purpose. 
She  was  knitting. 

"The  citoyenne  comes  late.  The  family  have  left.  I 
am  in  charge,'*  she  said. 

Terezia  did  not  move. 

The  woman,  still  knitting,  rose,  tall,  emaciated,  smiling 
— her  one  sharp  tooth  projecting  over  her  shriveled  lip. 

"Who  are  you,  my  dear.?  A  friend  of  the  family 
maybe.'"' 

She  spoke  to  empty  walls.  Terezia  had  flown,  running 
for  dear  life. 

To  get  away,  to  get  away  at  any  price!  A  torturing 
sense  of  terror  spurred  Terezia  to  her  utmost  endeavor. 
Tallien  would  help  her.  Tallien  loved  her,  Tallien  was  the 
soul  of  compassion!  He  was  also  a  brave  young  man, 
and  a  deputy. 

They  drove  to  the  House  of  Assembly. 

By  sheer  good  luck,  when  Terezia  had  squeezed  her  way 
through  the  evil  crowd  to  a  prominent  place  in  the  public 
gallery  where,  looking  down,  she  had  an  uninterrupted 
view  of  the  famous  Salle  de  Manege,  Tallien  was  in  the  act 
of  addressing  the  Convention. 

She  listened,  entranced.  In  her  ears  his  voice  was  beau- 
tiful, impassioned,  full  of  vigor. 


TERROR  213 

He  was  denouncing  the  rights  of  monarchy,  urging  the 
house  to  commit  the  king  to  trial  and  condemn  him.  He 
appealed  to  his  fellow  legislators — to  their  intelligence, 
to  their  patriotism.  He  did  not  veil  his  purpose — he 
gloried  in  it.  He  shouted  in  the  extremity  of  his  confi- 
dence and  elation.  The  determined  representatives  of 
France  had  all  to  win  and  nothing  to  lose — victory  lay 
in  their  hands !  He  waved  the  Prussian  invasion  aside  as 
a  man  might  toss  a  handful  of  wet  matches  into  the  fire. 
God  was  with  them !  Never  had  there  been  such  torrential 
floods.  Argonne  was  steeped  in  water,  and  the  enemy's 
troops  were  weakened  by  dysentery,  and  openly  mutinous. 
The  good  patriots  of  France  would  welcome  their  foes 
in  a  proper  manner — a  remnant  of  rebellious  and  disease- 
riddled  invaders.  .  .  .  Again  he  urged  the  case  of  Louis 
Capet. 

A  murmur  rose  in  the  packed  hall. 

Camille  Desmoulins  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair;  his 
ironical  glance  penetrated  Tallien's  vanity.  Tallien  loved 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  he  loved  his  own  wide  gestures, 
his  own  sweeping  assertions  which  fired  the  heated  imagi- 
nation of  the  multitude.  He  was  not  speaking  to  the 
National  Convention  but  to  the  soul  of  France,  to  thirty- 
five  million  superbly  free  individuals — superbly  free, 
thanks  to  the  genius  of  Tallien ! 

Behind  liis  words  Desmoulins  saw  the  shadow  of  his 
gross  vanity,  his  gross  birth,  his  gross  cowardice.  A  brave 
man  never  blusters. 

Robespierre  listened  to  his  colleague,  now  and  again 
shaking  his  head,  now  and  again  mumbling  beneath  his 
breath,  and  all  the  time  he  sucked  a  straw — when  Tallien 
had  finished,  it  lay  limp  and  flaccid  in  his  hand ;  he  dropped 
it  to  the  ground.  The  gesture  was  significant.  So  was 
the  glance  he  directed  towards  Tallien. 

Terezia,  against  her  better  judgment,  refused  to  credit 
her  own  ears.     Tallien  was  certainly  a  splendid  young 


214  TORCHLIGHT 

man,  very  good  and  reliable.  It  was  she,  shaken  by  all 
she  had  gone  through,  who  had  not  understood  the  pur- 
port of  his  speech.     She  leaned  forward,  smiling.  .    .    . 

Tallien  never  once  glanced  up  at  the  crowded  public 
gallery.  Desmoulins,  from  his  seat  in  the  body  of  the 
hall,  let  his  eyes  rove  the  place  in  idle  curiosity.  In  idle 
curiosity  at  his  first  opportunity  he  went  upstairs,  to 
verify  his  suspicion.  Of  course  she  was  a  fool — but  still 
he  firmly  believed  Terezia's  folly  had  its  due  limits.  He 
listened  very  attentively  to  Terezia's  rather  disconnected 
petition.  He  said  he  would  do  his  best  to  help  her,  but 
held  out  very  little  hope  of  any  success,  and  advised  her 
to  return  with  all  possible  speed  to  Fontenay.  He  also 
promised  to  inquire  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  Cardi- 
lacs.  He  would  look  at  lists,  old  and  new.  He  was  very 
kind,  very  sarcastic,  and,  you  could  see,  mortally  weary 
of  the  whole  flagrant  business. 

"A  dignified  moderation  acts  as  a  healthy  wind,"  he 
said.  "Robespierre  is  overborne  by  terrific  impulses.  It 
is  deplorable  and  insane." 

"Surely  you  can  oppose  him.'*     He  is  a  rat." 

He  shook  his  head.  "When  the  trouble  is  over  I  will 
^arrange  matters  to  your  complete  satisfaction." 

Terezia  looked  at  him  closely.  "My  friend,  will  nothing 
make  you  serious,"  she  asked,  "or  frightened.^" 

"What  is  the  good  of  being  frightened.'^  Fear  never 
yet  improved  a  man's  valor.  With  your  kind  permission, 
I  will  remain  myself,"  he  said  genially. 

"You  are  to  be  envied  in  this  respect,  at  least,  that  you 
can  look  on " 

"I  look  away. — By  the  way,  citoyenne,  there  is  a  rough 
fellow  here  who  has  been  staring  at  you  for  the  last  half- 
hour — over  there." 

"Oh!"  said  Terezia,  suddenly  remembering  her  own 
danger. 

She  recognized  her  fat  admirer  from  last  year.  He  had 
also  recognized  her.    He  now  placed  a  finger  to  his  mouth, 


TERROR  215 

and  favored  her  with  a  significant  leer.     She  felt  herself 
trapped  on  all  sides. 

"Take  me  away,"  she  said,  "at  once.  It  is  insufferably 
hot  up  here."  She  tapped  an  individual  standing  in  front 
of  her — "Let  me  pass,  please." 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE  New  Year  saw  Terezia  still  at  Fontenay,  living  in 
three  or  four  rooms.  The  staff  of  servants  had  been 
much  reduced — it  was  practically  impossible  to  keep  serv- 
ants in  those  days — their  table  at  times  poorly  furnished. 
By  contrast,  the  post-bag  was  groaningly  heavy.  What 
news !  The  Convention  had  carried  their  threat  into  exe- 
cution— the  incredible  had  come  to  pass.  The  king  lay 
under  sentence  of  death.  Terezia,  when  she  heard  the 
news,  felt  nigh  unto  fainting.  If  they  murdered  the  king 
in  cold  blood,  they  would  not  spare  her.  They  would  come 
and  drag  her  out  of  her  poor  "three  or  four  rooms'^ — 
drag  her  out  as  you  would  a  starved  weasel,  and  wring 
her  neck  with  absolute  indifference.    ... 

Life  and  what  happened  in  life  had  only  for  Terezia  a 
relative  significance.  Uaffaire  du  roi  spelled  Vaffaire  Te- 
rezia. 

Tragedy  is  only  overwhelming  when  perfectly  simple. 
The  situation  was  on  the  whole  without  any  complications. 
The  king  had  to  die.  They  gave  him  a  few  privileges — 
a  father  confessor,  a  farewell  interview  with  his  family, 
and  a  drive  through  the  streets  of  Paris.  The  people  were 
excluded  from  sight-seeing.  Eighty  thousand  troops  lined 
the  streets,  eighty  thousand  automata  in  this  scheme  of 
restitution.  Every  patriotic  heart  was  filled  with  sublime 
emotion. 

So  he  passed  through  the  empty  streets,  spared  some 
trouble,  a  king  to  the  last — prisoner  of  his  thirty-five 
million  people,  and  victim  of  his  own  character. 

The  morning  light  shone  on  the  scaffold.  The  incred- 
ible deed  had  taken  place.  All  Europe  wailed.  And  the 
queen  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break.   .    .    . 

216 


TERROR  217 

He  was  aged  thirty-eight  years,  four  months  and 
twenty-eight  days. 

January  21,  1793. 

In  this  time  of  stress  Deputy  Tallien  kept  up  wonder- 
fully. He  slept  better  than  he  had  ever  slept  in  all  his 
life — much,  we  suppose,  as  a  satiated  boa-constrictor 
slumbers  in  the  hot  sun.  Every  night  he  went  to  bed 
(sometimes  he  took  off  his  boots,  sometimes  he  didn't) 
with  a  good  conscience  and  physically  exhausted.  As  he 
said,  he  did  not  spare  himself;  as  a  "humble  instrument" 
he  worked  prodigiously  hard,  doing  all  the  dirtiest  work 
of  his  party.  He  tried  to  get  out  of  it — he  was  more 
than  a  little  frightened  of  consequences — but  his  chief 
was  insistent. 

January  rushed  ahead  in  a  very  orgy  of  glory — they 
called  it  glory ;  an  excellent  program,  headed  by  the  king's 
execution ;  item,  the  massacre  of  the  priests ;  item,  the 
children's  day;  item,  the  marriage  of  the  Loire;  item — 
but  why  go  on?  A  certain  monotony  about  the  whole 
business. 

Now,  the  September  massacres  had  been  a  novelty,  as 
no  one  would  deny.  For  instance,  the  beautiful  Princesse 
de  Lamballe's  bloody,  severed  head,  thrust  on  a  tall  spike 
for  the  edification  of  the  queen  at  an  upper  window — she 
had  so  little  amusement — was  a  thoughtful  piece  of  fun. 
They  say  a  jailer  flung  himself  between  her  and  the  sight, 
incurring  her  majesty's  displeasure  at  his  rudeness.  He 
had  almost  laid  hands  on  her — so  they  said — to  get  her 
out  of  the  way ;  he  had  sworn  at  her  distinctly  and  laughed 
hideously,  and  she  had  retreated  (proudly)  into  her 
corner.  .  .  .  It  is  comforting  to  know  that  a  demon  is  not 
insensible  to  common  decency.  We  wonder  if  he  got  good 
marks  for  his  gentlemanly  act?  We  like  to  fancy  the 
Recording  Angel  amending  judgment  in  the  Book  of  Life 
— "Strike  off  two  thousand  years  of  purgatory  for  one 
Jean  Henri,  the  son  of  Pichau.    ..." 

Like  all  great  men.  Deputy  Robespierre  would  rather 
be  the  object  of  a  visit  than  the  visitor.     However,  one 


218  TORCHLIGHT 

February  morning  he  pocketed  his  prejudices,  and 
mounted  the  three  pair  of  steep  stone  stairs  leading  to 
Deputy  Tallien's  private  door.  He  came  early — before 
seven  in  the  morning — as  he  wanted  to  take  him  by  sur- 
prise. He  had  also  some  information  of  a  private  char- 
acter to  give  him.  In  fact,  friend  Tallien  was  shortly 
to  be  intrusted  by  a  prudent  nation  with  a  post  of  some 
dehcacy  and  honor — a  post  where  he  would  be  at  liberty 
to  act  according  to  his  own  distinguished  discretion.  All 
over  France  they  were  instituting  these  very  necessary 
departments,  under  the  jurisdiction  of  a  supreme  court 
in  Paris.  The  times  were  such  that  it  was  of  paramount 
importance  to  look  after  the  Public  Safety.  The  seaports 
especially  were  to  be  watched,  and,  in  order  to  lessen  the 
pressure  of  executions  in  the  capital,  the  guilty  could  be 
arraigned  locally,  tried,  and  (if  found  guilty)  guillotined 
at  the  discretion  of  the  said  governors  in  their  own  towns 
or  districts — a  scheme  which  would  save  everyone  a  great 
deal  of  inconvenience,  and  the  loss  of  much  valuable  time. 
Hundreds  of  times  Deputy  Robespierre  had  impressed 
on  his  supporters  the  necessity  of  quick  work.  It  mad- 
dened him,  he  said,  to  see  this  lack  of  briskness.  As  a 
result  of  this  desultory  beha\aor  and  slack  attention  to 
duty  many  enemies  of  the  country  had  made  good  their 
escape,  and  were  now  safe  in  England  or  elsewhere,  plot- 
tins-  in  their  own  nefarious  interests.  The  French  Am- 
bassador,  M.  Charles-Maurice  de  Talleyrand,  ancien 
bishop,  ancien  deputy,  had  been  obliged,  rather  precipi- 
tately, to  ask  for  his  passports.  Being  a  wise  man,  he 
had  traveled  to  America,  provisionally  discarding  both 
spiritual  and  temporal  rank  in  favor  of  life.  They  said 
he  earned  a  living  by  setting  up  a  small  retail  shop  and 
conducting  it  profitably.  He  had  quite  a  genius,  M.  de 
Talleyrand,  for  serAang  his  own  ends.  We  are  sure,  even 
if  his  pork  wasn't  often  first  grade,  that  he  got  a  prime 
price  for  it,  and  that  he  wrapped  up  each  separate  piece 
very  elegantly,  giving  the  lucky  purchaser  a  distinguished 
smile  for  nothing. 


TERROR  219 

Deputy  Tallien  -vras  up  and  dressed,  looking  rather 
puffj  and  red  in  the  face.  He  had  been  up  all  night  at 
the  Jacobin  Club — the  life  and  soul  of  the  meeting.  After 
he  had  addressed  the  influential  gathering  some  of  the 
members  had  entertained  him  at  a  splendid  supper,  where 
there  was  very  little  food  and  much  wine.  Tallien  was 
a  poor  drinker.  Two  bottles  quite  did  for  him.  He  would 
then  dangle  against  his  chair,  like  a  doll  stuffed  unevenly 
with  sawdust,  and  speak  very  freely,  to  the  intense  grati- 
fication of  his  many  opponents. 

Seeing  Deputy  Robespierre,  Deputy  Tallien  suddenly 
recalled  some  of  his  remarks  after  supper.  He  had  spoken 
in  disparaging  terms  of  his  beloved  chief.  What  hadn't 
he  called  him?  ...  he  was  quite  embarrassed. 

"Take  a  seat,"  he  said  hospitably,  pulling  a  chair  for- 
ward.   "As  you  see,  I  have  been  bus}' — kept  to  the  traces."^ 

He  waved  his  hand  impartially  round  his  little  over- 
crowded room,  indicating  his  untidy  desk  and  a  notable 
collection  of  miniatures.  He  had  lately  gone  in  for  min- 
iatures. He  admired,  so  he  said,  beautiful  women,  refined 
and  beautiful  women ;  it  was  a  study  of  absorbing  interest. 

Robespierre  sat  down,  very  carefully  put  his  shiny 
yellow  hat  on  a  convenient  table,  and  placed  his  walking- 
stick  between  his  knees ;  he  sat  crunched  forward,  his  knees 
in  and  his  feet  out — contemplatively  sucking  the  head  of 
his  cane  and  looking  at  the  head  of  Tallien. 

"A  fine  morning,"  said  Tallien,  breezily.  "It  was  a  pity 
you  weren't  at  the  club  last  night — a  really  moving  address: 
from  Hebert " 

"I'm  sorry  to  pain  you,  my  dear  fellow,  but  heads  are 
heads.'* 

Tallien  was  still  standing.  His  smile  had  grown  very 
large. 

"What  an  extraordinary  coincidence!  It  was  just  ex* 
actl}'^  what  he  said." 

"Exactly."     (Suck,  suck.) 

"All  alike." 

"All  alike." 


220  TORCHLIGHT 

Robespierre  thumped  his  stick  viciously  on  the  floor 
(rat-tat-tat !) .  "What  do  you  mean  by  trifling  with  duty, 
citizen?" 

"I?" 

Tallien's  wide  open  mouth  was  as  round  as  a  red  gutta- 
percha ball.     "I?"  he  repeated,  dumfounded. 

"Precisely.  You  are  sheltering  the  Fontenays.  I  know 
it  as  a  fact.  She  was  down  on  a  list.  A  list,  sir,  of  my 
own  hand.  You've  dared  to  scratch  off  her  name.  I'm 
not  a  fool — whatever  you  are.  I'm  not  a  lover — whatever 
you  are."  At  every  word  his  voice  got  lower  and  lower 
— intensely  audible.  His  meaning  was  unmistakable.  He 
dropped  his  cane  with  a  clatter.  Tallien  jumped  forward 
and  picked  it  up — it  was  quite  an  unconscious  movement 
— probably  hereditary. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?" 

"She  can  wait,  she  can  always  wait,"  murmured  Tallien. 
Then  he  swore,  not  angrily,  but  in  mild  amusement,  "How 
you  jump  at  conclusions !  I  don't  know  the  lady.  Met 
her  twice  in  my  life.  Twice — twice,  two  little  moments. 
Ask  the  rose.     The  rose  speaks  truth.     The  rose " 

Robespierre  snarled.  He  had  no  stomach  for  such 
idiocies.  He  wanted  the  woman  for  his  own  purpose — 
to  spite  Tallien.  .  .  .  Tallien  wanted  her  for  his  pur- 
pose.   .    .    . 

"Ha,  ha !"  sniggered  Robespierre.  "We  can  wait,  we 
can  always  wait.  Joking  apart,  the  Carrabus  correspond- 
ence  " 


"Foolish,  incriminating,  awful!'* 
"Mark  my  word- 


»> 


"It  isn't  fair,  Robespierre,  it  isn't  fair."  Tallien  swept 
his  hand  across  his  eyes.  "Use  a  bell  too  hardly  and  it'll 
crack.  How  I've  swung  in  your  interests !  How  I  have 
labored  on  the  thorny  path  of  duty !  Have  I  ever  thought 
of  myself ?  Never!  And  I  never  will.  I'd  rather  die  than 
be  selfish." 

*'StuflP  and  nonsense!     Where  are  they.'*'* 

"How  should  I  know?" 


TERROR  221 

"Arrest  the  woman  to-day." 

"If  she  is  in  Paris " 

"She  is  in  Paris." 

"That's  all  right.     Perfectly  all  right." 

Robespierre  took  up  his  hat.  "That's  true,"  he  said, 
smiling  (always  a  hideous  performance).  "Here  we  are 
very  nearly  disputing  over  nothing.  I  have  something  of 
real  importance  to  tell  you.  Not  now,  dear  friend,  I 
haven't  time.  We'll  see  each  other  at  the  House.  Come 
into  my  committee-room,  at  twelve  o'clock.  You'll  be 
pleased.     It  is  a  splendid  idea." 

"Thank  you,  citot/erh,  I  am  most  deeply  grateful.  As 
a  humble " 

However,  the  sentence  was  lost  on  his  patron.  Very 
nimbly  the  great  man  took  himself  away,  chuckling  down 
the  stairs. 

He  had  no  sooner  got  away  before  Tallien  flung  himself 
before  his  writing-table  and  scrawled  a  note. 

"I  can't  wait,  I  can't  wait,"  he  murmured. 

Neither  could  the  Fontenays.  Thanks  to  an  anonymous 
communication  they  received  that  morning,  they  hastened 
their  departure  to  Bordeaux.  In  fact,  they  set  off  that 
very  evening,  and  were  handed  their  passports — as  ar- 
ranged— by  an  unknown  individual  at  the  eastern  toll-gate. 


CHAPTER    XXXn 

'T^EREZIA   sat  at  her  dressing-table,   considering  her 
■■■     nails.     They  were  rather  blunt,  but  beautifully  pol- 
ished— on  the  whole,  she  felt  satisfied  with  their  appear- 
ance. 

She  had  lately  moved  into  new  rooms,  very  far  from 
meeting  the  requirements  of  her  station,  but  much  more 
to  her  satisfaction  than  the  proffered  hospitality  of  her 
uncle  and  his  "odious"  wife. 

From  the  very  first  moment  Terezia  had  shrunk  from 
this  paragon  of  a  female,  who  regarded  beauty  as  a  crime, 
and  a  forlorn  position  as  the  outcome  of  some  personal 
ineptitude.  Citoyenne  Louise  Carrabus  was  a  virtuous 
woman,  and  looked  upon  Citoyenne  Terezia  Fontenay  as 
a  frail  specimen  of  her  sex.  She  had  heard  stories — even 
in  Bordeaux — of  her  ioose  living.  She  pitied  Devin,  and 
told  him  frankly  that,  though  she  abhorred  divorce  in 
the  abstract,  she  considered  it  in  his  case  a  merciful  insti- 
tution. 

Terezia  had  to  endure  her  aunt's  views,  her  aunt's  cold- 
ness, her  aunt's  advice,  until  she  wanted  to  shriek,  and 
catch  at  her  aunt's  plastered  peruke  and  tear  it  into 
shreds. 

Mortal  dulness  met  her  in  Bordeaux  from  the  very 
outset.  Mortal  dulness  had  a  privileged  home  at  her 
uncle's  house;  in  fact  mortal  dulness  occupied  every  nook 
and  corner  of  that  roomy  establishment  on  the  quay, 
•where  the  tall  windows  faced  the  shipping  and  a  glimpse 
of  the  sea  beyond. 

It  was  a  quiet  town  in  the  spring  of  1793.  The  doves 
on   the  market-place   cooed   contentedly.      A    few   lucky 

222 


TERROR  223 

would-be  emigrants  managed  to  get  a  foothold  on  the 
planks  of  outgoing  vessels.  Those  not  so  lucky  were 
hustled  into  the  local  prisons  to  await  trial.  There  was 
a  Committee  of  Public  Safety  in  Paris,  with  thousands 
of  branches  stretching  all  over  France.  Presently  a  ru- 
mor arrived  in  the  busy  commercial  town  of  Bordeaux, 
the  rumor  stayed,  it  grew  to  definite  news — and  as  it  were 
from  all  the  corners  of  the  earth  the  winds  rose  and  bel- 
lowed. .  .  .  The  Terror  was  on  them !  Bordeaux  would 
taste  of  aristocratic  blood!  Bordeaux  would  see  with 
her  own  eyes  the  deadly  working  of  that  wonderful  instru- 
ment of  justice,  the  guillotine.  .  .  .  Red  caps  waved 
ecstatically  in  the  air.  Lily  heads  drooped  disconsolately. 
In  the  hideous  prisons  arose  a  sound  which  might  have 
been  derision,  or  a  murmur  of  thankfulness.   .    .    . 

The  captains  on  all  outgoing  ships  were  hard  pressed 
for  accommodation. 

Who  was  coming  to  their  good  town  "to  preserve 
order"? 

No  doubt  they  would  send  a  capable  man. 

Terezia  was  on  the  eve  of  dissolving  her  marriage  with 
shock-headed  Devin — he  on  the  eve  of  procuring  a  passage 
to  Martinique.  Terezia  intended,  pending  her  future  ar- 
rangements, to  stay  on  quietly  at  Bordeaux,  under  the 
protection  of  her  kinsfolk  (her  two  brothers  lived  in  the 
town).     She  was  to  have  the  custody  of  the  little  Georges. 

Terezia  accepted  every  clause  in  her  divorce.  Nothing 
mattered.     Life  was  stagnant. 

No  doubt  she  did  her  best  to  mitigate  the  barrenness  of 
her  existence.  No  doubt  love  flourished  in  her  little  apart- 
ment. Even  at  Bordeaux  she  had  many  admirers  and  a 
few  ardent  lovers.  Some  of  these  gentlemen,  on  their  way 
to  foreign  parts,  believed  in  her  ovei-powering  goodness. 
She  was  an  angel,  they  said, — this  beautiful,  charitable 
woman  with  a  sad  history.  (An  unfortunate  marriage 
invariably  bestows  on  a  woman  a  pathetic  importance.) 
Now  that  Devin  was  out  of  her  life  as  completely  as  if 
he  had  never  been  in  it,  Terezia  said  she  missed  him.     She 


224  TORCHLIGHT 

(deliberately  took  up  the  position  of  the  neglected  wife 
before  her  sympathetic  audiences. 

Terezia  in  her  wild  search  for  excitement  did  not  mind 
involving  herself  in  dangerous  affairs.  She  was  known  to 
assist  refugees,  known  to  distribute  unauthorized  pass- 
ports. She  was  more  than  "suspected" — she  was  regarded 
as  a  notorious  busybody  who  had  no  right  to  cumber  the 
earth.  The  great  majority  of  the  women  of  Bordeaux 
condemned  her  outright.  Why  didn't  those  in  authority 
send  her  packing? — this  colossally  important  young  per- 
son with  her  excessively  short  morals.  There  were  scan- 
dals about  her  to  right  and  left.  Her  aunt  held  up  her 
bony  hands  in  mute  protestation — mute  because  there  are 
some  subjects  no  self-respecting  woman  will  mention. 

Terezia  didn't  mind.  She  enjoyed  her  notoriety.  She 
courted  danger.  She  made  friends  with  seafaring  cap- 
tains. She  collected  funds  for  the  needy.  Secretly  she 
opened  a  bureau  for  "Public  Safety,"  and  she  flourished 
as  the  proverbial  bay-tree. 

Terror  was  creeping  down  the  white  roads  of  France, 
creeping  forward  In  the  person  of  a  very  notal^e  gentle- 
man— none  other  than  the  Dictator's  right-hand  man,  his 
dearly-beloved  Tallien.  Tallien  could  be  trusted  to  do 
his  duty.  Tallien  had  gone  through  the  right  sort  of 
experience.  The  sight  of  a  headless  trunk  no  longer  gave 
him  a  qualm,  but  keen  satisfaction.  A  whole-hearted 
patriot  he,  and  a  splendid  business  man.  He  had  grown 
very  rich.  He  knew  how  to  harness  larceny  and  usury 
to  his  own  profit.  One  thousand  per  cent,  was  his  com- 
mission for  a  small  job.  He  was  arrogant  and  puffed  with 
pride.  His  long  lank  body  heralded  immense  deeds.  ... 
The  winds  grew  in  volume  around  old  Bordeaux ;  the  whole 
town  quivered.  .    .    . 

Yet  Tallien  wasn't  a  happy  man.  Greed  Is  one  thing, 
passion  another.  He  had  satisfied  his  greed,  but  his  passion 
had  never  met  an  equal  response.  He  spat  at  the  memory 
of  his  early  conquests — immature  adventures  of  enormous 


TERROR  225 

Hulness  and  equal  ease.  He  wanted  to  live — he,  Tallien; 
he  wanted  to  be  a  hero  to  himself  and  a  hero  to  his 
woman!  His  big  eyes  roved  Paris — blood,  nothing  but 
blood.  He  was  getting  a  bit  sick  of  signing  death-war- 
rants, a  bit  wearied  of  this  continual  performance,  which 
lacked  novelty.  He  wanted  a  big  adventure.  He  was 
burning  to  let  loose  his  very  soul  at  the  feet  of  a  perfect 
woman.  He  saw  her  in  his  dreams,  tall,  voluptuous,  well- 
bred,  white-skinned,  golden-haired  with  rich  red  lips  and 
a  genius  for  love.  .  .  .  She  was  a  past  mistress  in  the 
art  which  has  given  woman  her  unique  position.  Tallien 
wanted  to  be  tamed,  to  be  led  by  a  "silken  thread,"  to  be 
worsliiped  and  to  worship  at  his  divinity's  shrine.    .    .    . 

With  pomp  and  state  our  lackey — now  the  all-conquer- 
ing Governor — made  his  entrance  into  hapless  Bordeaux. 
He  arrived  in  the  midst  of  a  street  broil.  Some  of  the 
inhabitants  were  in  the  chase  of  a  fugitive  woman — she  tall, 
elegant,  with  flashing  eyes  and  heaving  bosom  .  .  .  they 
were  on  her,  scowling,  howling  .  .  .  quite  a  picturesque 
scene.  At  the  critical  moment  she  saw  her  deliverance. 
Forcing  herself  free  of  the  crowd,  she  ran  right  into  the 
arms  of  the  all-powerful  man. 

He  caught  her  and  held  her  tenderly.  Her  sweet  breath 
fanned  his  cheek — her  red  mouth  all  a-quiver,  all  humid, 
all  beseeching.  He  looked  into  her  eyes,  dim  with  inex- 
pressible emotion.  The  menacing  populace  had  less  than 
no  significance.  They  two  were  alone,  held  by  a  magic 
spell.  .  .  .  Tallien  leaned  over  Terezia.  "You  are  safe, 
citoyeTvne"  he  said  dully. 

His  heart  had  never  beaten  so  convulsively.  "Where 
do  you  live?"  he  asked  her. 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  words  failed  her. 

Tallien  glanced  at  the  hushed  crowd — thinning  rapidly. 
He  shuddered  at  the  possible  turn  of  events  if  he  had  not 
app>eared  in  time.  He  was  horrified  at  the  thought  of 
an  innocent  woman  being  torn-  to  pieces  by  a  set  of  igno- 
rant, blasphemous  wolves.  They  were  no  better  than 
animals. 


226  TORCHLIGHT 

Gently  he  passed  his  hand  over  Terezia's  disheveled 
head.  The  touch  of  her  hair  electrified  him.  She  was 
very  beautiful.  He  noticed  her  left  arm  was  bleeding,  just 
below  the  elbow.  He  sucked  the  wound.  She  was  very 
pale,  verj^  quiet,  very  respectful. 

"Come,"  he  said  authoritativelj'^,  "I  will  take  you  home. 
Citoyenn£,  I  am  here  to  protect  you" — he  bent  close  to 
her  ear — "to  love  you.  Do  you  understand?  I  never 
forget  a  face.  Your  face  has  lived  with  me  day  and  night. 
I  always  redeem  my  promises." 

"You  have  never  given  me  a  promise,"  she  said.  She 
lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  proudly. 

"Not  in  so  many  words,"  he  said  gravely. 

She  felt  his  arm  tremble  around  her  waist.  She  could 
have  laughed,  under  normal  circumstances.  She  knew  the 
symptoms  so  well !  Her  heart  beat  to  suffocation,  her 
mind  a  whirl  of  doubt — of  splendid  hope.  Had  she  turned 
a  very  ugly  corner.'' 

"I  don't  care  about  my  own  life,"  she  said  modestly, 
"except  that  it  may  be  In  some  small  degree  of  consequence 
to  others.  The  citoyen  Tallien  knows  that  duty  and  love 
are  ever  hand  in  hand?" 

"Duty  and  love,"  he  echoed  slowly.  "They  are  at  war, 
citoyenn^." 

She  looked  down.  "If  so,  I  wonder  which  will  conquer 
in  your  case,"  she  said,  softly. 

"Need  you  ask?" 

She  was  silent. 

Leaning  on  his  arm,  they  walked  foi-ward.  At  the  door 
of  her  house  she  paused.  She  held  out  her  hand.  "Good- 
by,  and  thank  you  for  my  life,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  without  comprehension.  A  tinge  of 
color  had  returned  to  her  face ;  her  eyes  were  very  bright. 

"Do  you  live  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  is  your  husband?" 

"I  have  no  husband." 


TERROR  227 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "For  the  matter  of  that, 
it  is  of  no  consequence,"  he  said  brutally. 

"No." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

Terezia  smiled.  "I  have  divorced  him.  Citoyen  Fon- 
tenay  has  probably  by  now  arrived  at  St.  Pierre.  Does 
it  interest  you,  citoyenf" 

"Everything  about  you  interests  me." 

"You  are  very  kind." 

*'Citoyenne,  I  am  a  brute  at  heart ;  a  brute  wants  to  be 
satisfied." 

She  liked  his  address.  It  was  uncouth,  unconventional 
— admiration,  akin  to  madness,  lit  his  black  eyes. 

She  had  been  feeling  sadly  unnerved  after  her  imminent 
peril ;  now  she  felt  safe. 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  "I  have  been  in  great 
danger,  citoyen,'*  she  said.     "If  you  hadn't  come  at  that 

moment  and  taken  care  of  me "     She  left  her  sentence 

unfinished.     It  was  quite  intelligible  enough. 

He  looked  quickly  up  and  down  the  street.  No  one  was 
in  sight.  He  caught  her  up  bodily  in  his  strong  arms  and 
mounted  the  stairs.  She  clung  to  him,  abandoning  herself 
completely  to  his  mercy.  She  handed  him  her  latch-key, 
and  he  pushed  open  the  door  and  carried  her  into  her 
sitting-room. 

By  the  window  stood  a  writing-table  massed  with  books 
and  papers ;  a  silk-shaded  lamp ;  a  bowl  of  spring  flowers. 
A  broad  couch  was  drawn  up  by  the  chimney  angle.  The 
walls  were  covered  with  brightly-tinted  paper  on  a  cream 
ground.  There  were  two  or  three  easy-chairs  in  the  room 
— a  gay  rug  or  two  on  the  polished  floor.  On  a  pretty 
little  work-table  in  mahogany,  with  a  green  fluted  silk-box, 
stood  the  miniature  portrait  of  a  little  boy,  in  a  gilt 
frame ;  a  home-like,  charming  apartment,  full  of  refined 
atmosphere.     The  sun  flooded  the  room. 

Tallien  laid  Terezia  gently  on  the  sofa. 

"Darling,"  he  murmured,  "I  have  loved  you  since  the 
beginning.     Terezia,  my  beautiful  Terezia,  the  gods  work 


228  TORCHLIGHT 

for  those  whom  they  honor.  This  is  our  hour."  He  bent 
over  her  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"You  are  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world,"  he 
said. 

He  knelt  down  beside  her  and  chafed  her  cold  hands. 
"I  believe  in  destiny,"  he  said.  "This  had  to  be.  You  are 
mine  now  and  forever." 

She  never  looked  at  him,  but  she  was  acutely  conscious 
of  his  presence. 

He  kissed  her  hands,  her  white  neck,  a  little  blue  vein  on 
her  temple.  He  buried  his  face  in  her  fragrant  hair, 
and  all  the  time  he  was  thinking  furiously.  .  .  .  "This  is 
iny  woman !  I  love  her !  I  adore  her !  I  will  renounce 
my  public  career.  I  will  live  for  her !  I  will  devote  every 
hour  of  my  existence  to  making  her  happy.  She  shall 
return  my  love  a  hundredfold.  ..."  He  said  nothing. 
His  mute  worsliip  bathed  Terezia's  whole  being  in  the 
essence  of  content.  She  had  no  desire  to  move  ...  he 
continued  to  kiss  her  with  the  ardor  of  passion  and  the 
gentleness  of  love.  .  .  .  "He  would  treat  her  well.  He 
would  be  her  humble  slave."  His  fingers  followed  the  lines 
of  her  voluptuous  figure.  .  .  .  She  was  a  wonder,  a  mira- 
cle, a  glory!  ... 

In  an  ecstasy  of  joy  his  lips  met  hers — wholly  sweet, 
wholly  submissive. 

Suddenly  she  raised  herself  and  wound  her  arms  around 
his  neck.     They  rocked  together,  bound  by  one  desire. 

It  was  getting  late,  yet  Tallien  could  not  make  up  his 
mind  to  go.  He  stood  staring  at  Terezia  with  unsatisfied 
hunger,  tongue-tied  by  the  very  excess  of  his  happiness. 
He  was  frightened  lest  she  should  escape  him.  Without 
realizing  it  he  was  jealous  of  her  friends,  her  occupations, 
her  very  thoughts.     He  wanted  her  entirely  for  himself. 

Citoyenne  Carrabus  was  standing  by  the  mirror,  ar- 
ranging her  hair.  With  a  rough  gesture  he  caught  hold 
of  her  plait — unloosed  it  and  wound  it  round  her  throat. 


TERROR  229 

*'I  could  strangle  you,"  he  murmured  rapturously. 
'*And  then  die  at  your  feet,  beloved," 

He  looked  at  her  with  dim  e^'es.  At  that  moment  he 
would  willingly  have  suffered  death  for  her.  He  opened 
wide  his  arms  and  crushed  her  to  his  heart.  "I  love  you 
more  than  life,"  he  said,  "more  than  self,  more  than  ambi- 
tion. I'm  as  wax  in  your  hands,  darling.  There  is  noth- 
ing I  wouldn't  do  for  you,  nothing  I  wouldn't  grant  you." 

She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "As  a  lover  you 
are  not  backward,"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her  tenderly,  respectfully,  almost  reluctantly. 
*'A11  I  ask  from  you  in  return  is  a  kind  word." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  put  her  fingers  on  his  eyelids. 
"Trust  me,  darhng,"  she  murmured. 

"I  am  strong  as  a  lion." 

"I  know  it." 

"As  my  wife,  Terezia,  you  will  be  famous." 

"As  your  wife?"  The  idea  was  new  to  her  and  not 
without  its  attraction.  As  his  wife  she  would  surely  go 
far?  Always  supposing  this  hot-headed  young  man  didn't 
trip.  It  was  just  as  easy  to  fall  as  to  rise  in  these  days. 
For  a  minute  she  considered  his  chances  .  .  .  they'd  do. 
In  this  world  you  must  always  risk  something. 

"I  will  marry  you,"  she  said  slowly,  "later  on.  We've 
got  to  be  careful,  dear;  there  is  your  position  to  think  of." 

He  laughed  to  scorn  her  scruples,  intoxicated  by  his 
success.  "Together  we'll  govern  the  world,'*  he  flared. 
"My  darling,  3^ou  need  never  regret  your  trust  in  me.  All 
I  have  is  yours.'* 

She  thanked  him  kindly.  Very  gently  she  unwound  her 
hair  and  gathered  it  in  a  firm  knot  at  the  back  of  her 
head.  She  looked  like  a  child,  meek,  solemn,  full  of  calm 
happiness.  .  .  .  She  believed  in  herself,  even  if  she  doubted 
Tallien.  ...  In  whatever  sphere  Providence  placed  her 
she'd  always  be  able  to  shine.     She  smiled. 

"Don't  boast,"  she  said  gently. 

He  laughed  harshly.     "There  is  light  ahead,"  he  said. 

He  pointed  to  a  gleam  in  the  darkening  sky. 


230  TORCHLIGHT 

Terezla  went  swiftJy  across  to  the  window  and  lowered 
the  blind. 

He  flung  himself  down  in  a  chair  and  buried  his  head 
in  his  hands;  in  them  he  held  her  little  lace-edged,  per- 
fumed handkerchief.  He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "There  is 
notliing  in  this  world  of  any  significance  except  yourself," 
he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

TJOBESPIERRE  allowed  himself  the  relaxation  of 
■*-^  novel-reading.  He  liked  to  flutter  through  a  volume, 
glean  the  plot,  laugh  or  sigh  as  the  case  might  be.  At 
times  the  Dictator  wanted  to  forget  the  present  reality. 
The  whirling  pace  hardly  suited  his  liver. 

He  had  long  ago  made  his  calculations — clever  enough 
up  to  a  certain  point,  but  beyond  that  the  ra\4ngs  of  a 
madman.  For  one  thing,  he  dismissed  God  from  his  uni- 
verse; the  working  of  the  doctor's  invention  had  clearly 
biased  liis  mind — he  accepted  no  authority  but  the  narrow 
basis  of  his  own  system,  which  engulfed  all  France.  Every 
living  man  was  open  to  suspicion ;  every  gutter-snipe 
reeked  of  aristocratic  blood. 

As  we  have  said,  there  were  no  limits  to  his  butchery, 
no  bounds  to  his  ambition.  He  saw  himself — in  a  sky-blue 
coat — ruling  heaven  and  earth,  surrounded  by  obedient 
tools,  mannikins  of  flesh-and-blood  ...  he  saw  a  whole 
battalion  move  at  the  "click"  of  one  tongue  (for  the  nonce 
parched  and  fever-coated). 

He  turned  the  pages  of  his  book  listlessly  and  started 
scratching  his  neck — more  blotchy  than  ever.  Through 
his  velvet  coat  he  felt  the  deadly  sweat  ooze  from  his  at- 
tenuated body.  The  fever  was  sapping  liis  strength, 
destroying  his  nerves.   .  .  . 

"Who  goes  there?"  he  snapped. 

He  watched  the  ample  folds  of  a  curtain  suddenly  bulge 
and  flap  out.  The  door  behind  it  was  locked,  the  key 
safe  in  his  pocket.  He  took  seemly  precaution  against 
any  attempts  on  his  life.  Who  had  dared  to  disturb  his 
privacy? 

Another  Corday,  maybe?     Another  buxom  young  wo- 

231 


232  TORCHLIGHT 

man  with  a  mission  to  fulfill?  He  dismissedl  the  idea  and 
the  danger.  Marat  had  been  a  palsied,  loose-lived  fool. 
Robespierre  prided  himself  on  his  continencj.  He  had 
not  driveled  away  his  strength  in  mighty  orgies.  Bah! 
he  despised  women-folk  and  the  lore  men  loved!  Love? 
What  had  love  to  do  with  his  magnificence?  The  Incor- 
ruptible One  smiled — chalk-white  in  the  face,  his  sweating 
body  damp  as  a  wringing  sheet. 

The  wind  had  played  him  a  trick — a  sudden  gust  had 
forced  the  carelessly-hinged  window  open  and  the  draught 
had  caught  the  heavy  curtain  opposite.  The  mild  April 
air  blew  into  the  smoke-riddled  privacy  of  the  most  re- 
sponsible villain  in  France. 

Robespierre  shut  up  his  book  and  limped  across  to  the 
window.  The  street  was  very  empty.  The  days  of  com- 
motion and  lively  pageants  had  died  a  natural  death.  The 
king,  the  queen,  the  court  were  wiped  off  the  face  of  the 
earth,  even  as  the  flowers  of  yester-year.  (Robespierre 
thought  in  poetry.)  Many  of  the  wicked  gone — and  a 
few  innocent  men.   .  .   . 

"The  pity  of  it !"  he  said  aloud. 

Over  the  death  of  these  unwitting  angels  Robespierre 
had  shed  hot  tears.    - 

"Brothers  in  heaven,"  he  had  implored,  "forgive  the 
mistakes  committed  in  the  name  of  Justice."  No  doubt 
this  stinging  insult  of  assumed  brotherhood  with  the  mar- 
tyrs fell  on  deaf  ears.  At  the  throne  of  God  these  good 
men  and  just  remained  impassive,  as  the  recording  angels 
meekly  kneeling  in  some  dim  church — fashioned,  they,  of 
marble  and  the  nimble  brain  of  artistry. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  Robespierre  spied  a  traveling 
carriage  jogging  down  the  evil  street;  it  was  dusty  and 
heavy  and  cumbersome.  The  leather  hood  was  brazenly 
flung  back.  All  the  world — had  the  world  so  minded — 
could  have  seen  the  happy  smile  of  ci-devant  Fontenay, 
Terezia  Carrabus — by  all  that  was  marvelous ! 

Robespierre's  face  took  on  a  curious  expression  as  he 
recognized  the  lady.     He  closed  the  window  carefully  and 


TERROR  233 

returned  to  his  seat  to  consider  his  immediate  course  of 
action.  Here  was  a  feather  to  pluck  and  fling  in  the  face 
of  outraged  modesty !  He  had  heard  of  Tallien^  master- 
ful wooing  and  tyrannical  rule  at  Bordeaux.  The  young 
man  was  copying  his  own  methods  too  closely  to  be  toler- 
ated. It  was  high  time  he  was  put  in  his  proper  place. 
Instinctively  Robespierre  stroked  his  blotchy  throat. 
After  all,  the  remedy  was  very  simple.  The  lady  should 
herself — indirectly — administer  the  healing  draught.  Tal- 
lien  had  clearly  behaved  as  an  arrogant  devil  and  deserved 
his  punishment. 

Robespierre,  summoning  all  his  dramatic  energies,  plot- 
ted a  scene  of  low  comedy,  or,  if  you  will,  high  tragedy. 
Tallien,  recalled  to  Paris,  should  have  the  pleasant  task 
of  denouncing  his  mistress  (a  preliminary  step).  It  would 
give  him  (Robespierre)  true  pleasure  to  aid  and  abet  his 
purpose.  Robespierre  had  never  failed  to  hate  Tallien. 
If  they  were  in  love,  so  much  the  better.  Love — lovel 
In  that  little  dirty  parlor  there  rang  out  a  cracked  laugh, 
and  the  mightiest  scoundrel  in  France  cut  a  clumsy  caperj 
game  leg  and  all. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

TEREZIA,   washed   and  beautified,   was  lying  on  her 
couch,  drawn  up  in   front   of  a  cheerful  wood  fire, 
fervently  admiring  the  slender  proportions  of  her  ankles. 

Her  flesh-tinted  silk  stockings  were  very  fine,  and 
matched  to  a  nicety  her  new  boudoir  gown  in  the  same 
shade  of  rose  satin.  There  were  frills  of  real  Mechlin 
round  her  bare  throat,  and  in  her  elbow-sleeves.  Her 
little  shoes  were  embroidered  with  apple-blossoms.  If  you 
remember,  it  was  the  month  of  April. 

The  salon  was  lofty  and  light,  creditably  clean  and 
very  well  furnished.  Young  Guery  had  found  her  the 
rooms — he  was  really  wonderfully  clever  and  such  a  dear 
boy.  .  .  .  Terezia  arched  her  foot.  She  might  tire  of 
her  lovers,  but  she  never  tired  of  herself. 

The  firelight  played  on  the  lovely  citoyenne's  be-creamed 
and  be-powdered  face,  flattering — if  possible — the  rakish 
glory  of  her  short-cropped  curls. 

Terezia's  great  plait  had  been  cut  off.  Thereby  hangs 
a  tale — a  tale  of  love  and  greed  and  insensate  passion ;  of 
how  she  tamed  the  Lion,  and  the  Lion  had  first  suffered 
all  the  tortures  of  jealousy  and  then  the  pent-up  misery 
of  remorse.  To  prove  her  virtue  Terezia  had  calmly 
reached  for  the  scissors  and  sacrificed  her  hair.  The 
action  had  dumfounded  Tallien  (as  it  was  meant  to  do). 
Meek  as  a  lamb,  he  had  kissed  her  feet,  blubbering  of  his 
wickedness,  and  coiled  round  his  throat  the  rich  symbol 
of  her  innocence. 

Only  then — with  Tallien  wearing  her  beloved  plait — 
did  Terezia  realize  her  folly.  She  fled  to  the  mirror  and 
fell  a-weeping.  Tliis  was  sacrilege!  This  was  horror! 
This  was  irrevocable! 

234 


TERROR  235 

In  spite  of  her  cropped  locks  and  her  deluge  of  promises, 
she  had  remained  faithful  just  as  long  as  it  suited  her. 
Every  time  Tallien  felt  doubtful  of  Terezia's  virtue,  he 
would  thrust  his  hand  deep  into  his  capacious  pocket  and 
squeeze  something  soft  and  perfumed.  He  carried  her 
plait  on  his  person  as  a  charm  against  infidelity.  Some- 
times that  soft  coil  of  hair  seemed  to  plunge  as  if  in  mirth. 

Bordeaux  and  what  happened  in  Bordeaux  belonged  to 
the  past.  Terezia  had  an  extraordinary  facility  in  ad- 
justing her  perspective.  To  some  women  there  is  an 
impassable  line  between  yesterday  and  to-day.  Yesterday 
was  of  no  importance  to  Terezia. 

Yet  she  was  content,  lying  on  her  comfortable  couch 
waiting  for  her  supper-guest  (Guery  was  rather  late  in 
returning),  to  re\'iew  the  past  six  months  of  her  life.  On 
the  whole  she  was  quite  pleased  with  herself.  Little 
women,  it  is  not  all  of  us  who  can  successfully  hoodwink 
a  roaring  lion ! 

Terezia  smiled  to  herself  as  she  recalled  one  or  two 
occasions  when  her  wit  and  audacity  had  saved  the  situa- 
tion. On  the  whole,  she  had  always  proved  herself  Tal- 
lien's  equal — in  fact,  his  superior.  Not  that  he  was 
stupid ;  he  was  seldom  taken  at  a  disadvantage,  and  where 
money  was  concerned  he  was  never  at  fault.  Terezia 
loved  the  means  of  wealth,  yet  at  times  she  had  urged 
TalHen  to  generosity.  So  bountiful  was  his  exchequer 
(she  said)  that  he  could  well  afford  an  occasional  act  of 
clemency  and  sometimes  send  to  the  guillotine  an  un- 
plucked  bird. 

On  execution  days  he  was  extremely  patriotic  and  com- 
pletely disinterested.  From  the  tribunal  of  justice,  his 
voice  would  ring  loud  and  effective.  "Brothers !"  he  would 
cry,  "he  must  die.     In  regenerated  France '* 

He  would  stalk  up  and  down  the  platform  erected 
immediately  opposite  the  guillotine — large  hands  gesticu- 
lating, juicy  lips  jutting,  bold  eyes  glittering— duly  im- 
pressing the  illiterate,  yet,  for  all  his  trumpeting,  a  prey 
to  nervous  indecision — a  born  coward,  he. 


236  TORCHLIGHT 

On  one  occasion,  carried  away  bj  his  conflicting  emo- 
tions and  madly  desirous  of  impressing  the  fickle  crowd, 
he  had  sprung  off  the  revolutionary  tribune  and  mounted 
the  gory  throne  of  La  Guillotine — a  stone's  throw  away. 
Picking  up  a  head  from  the  executioner's  basket,  still 
warm  and  faintly  colored,  he  held  it  at  arm's  length,  wav- 
ing it  in  the  air,  and  shouting  bestial  triumph.  Then, 
smoothing  back  the  clotted  tresses,  he  had  put  his  beefy 
lips  to  the  cold  mask  of  death,  and  deliberately,  slowly, 
unctuously,  kissed  the  rigid  mouth.  It  was  a  small 
woman's  mouth,  proud  and  young. 

The  rabble  had  swayed  to  catch  a  nearer  view  of  this 
moving  exhibition  and  had  shouted  in  sympathy.  One  or 
two  dissentient  voices: — "Enough,  enough,  you  beast," 
they  cried. 

Tallien  had  daintily  dropped  the  head  back  into  the 
packed  basket.  He  had  looked  at  his  blood-stained  fingers, 
at  his  wet  coat.  They  bled  profusely,  these  aristocrats — 
he  had  turned  suddenly  very  pale,  his  nostrils  quivered, 
his  full  mouth  hung  loose  as  a  withered  leaf.  He  had 
steadied  himself  on  the  raikngs. 

"Can  you  doubt  my  patriotism,  true  brothers  of  one 
mind?"     His  words  leaked  thin  as  a  spent  whistle. 

The  touch  of  those  lukewarm  lips  had  unnerved  him. 
Nasty,  hateful  business ! 

He  had  descended  the  platform,  dully  conscious  of  some 
irreparable  misfortune.  Through  his  sodden  mind  ran 
copious  lists  and  the  pressure  of  overwork.  Nasty,  hate- 
ful business !  .  .  .  He  had  glanced  behind  him  at  the  dirty 
knife — no  time  for  fripperies  and  cleanliness — with  an 
oath  he  had  sworn  he  would  make  holiday  to-morrow  and 
sever  himself  completely  from  his  public  duties.  His  mind 
had  turned  with  rapture  at  the  thought  of  Terezia, 
divinely  complacent,  divinely  compassionate,  divinely 
woman.   .   .   . 

The  lion,  full  of  these  engaging  fancies,  had  swung 
himself  free  of  the  crowd  and  had  gone  to  call  on  Citoyenne 
Carrabus. 


TERROR  237 

He  had  found  her  improperly  engaged,  and  had  swiftly 
ejected  the  young  man  from  the  premises.  She  was  his, 
body  and  soul!  A  terrible  scene  had  ensued.  Terezia 
remembered  quite  well  how  frightened  she  had  been  and 
how — here  she  smiled — how  everything  had  ended  in  her 
triumphant  victory. 

Tallien  needed  Terezia,  he  needed  her  smooth  words, 
her  wonderful  softness,  her  caresses,  the  light  of  her 
beautiful  eyes,  the  warmth  of  her  womanhood.  She  had 
soothed  him,  she  had  comforted  him,  she  had  brought 
music  into  his  life.  How  he  loved  her — this  matchless 
woman  who  lived  to  lie  and  lied  to  live! 

Terezia  played  with  the  soft  knot  of  ribbon  at  her 
bosom  and  dispassionately  reviewed  her  connection  with 
Tallien.  Of  course  she  had  deceived  him.,  but  she  had 
always  managed  him  beautifully.  And  indeed,  truth  to 
tell,  she  had  every  intention  of  legalizing  their  union  by 
marriage. 

She  liked  a  firm  footing  in  society,  and  had  always 
deplored  unconventionality  in  others.  At  her  first  oppor- 
tunity she  would  woo  respectability. 

Terezia  yawned  and  looked  impatiently  at  the  pretty 
little  timepiece  ornamenting  the  chimneypiece.  How  mis- 
erable was  all  this  fighting  in  Paris !  She  was  heartily 
sick  of  the  revolution  and  desired  nothing  better  than  a 
speedy  restoration  of  order  and  a  king  in  the  palace  again. 
What  she  wanted  was  a  system  of  effulgent  monarchy 
where  a  woman  of  parts  could  distinguish  herself. 

She  laughed  aloud  when  she  remembered  Tallien's  cun- 
ning expression,  when  one  day  she  had  bared  her  principles 
to  him.  He  hadn't  agreed  with  her.  Why  should  he  hate 
nice  people?  (said  Terezia).  What  did  he  see  in  the 
dirty  masses  to  admire?  She  had  called  him  a  simpleton 
and  then  kissed  him. 

Yes,  she  had  always  been  able  to  manage  her  refractory, 
big,  roaring  lion.  On  the  whole  she  was  rather  proud  of 
him.  Anyhow,  he  was  the  man  of  the  moment,  and  head 
and  shoulders  above  the  rabble.     His  one  fault  was  jeal- 


238  TORCHLIGHT 

ousy.  It  required  all  her  engaging  frankness  to  turn  the 
tide  of  his  suspicions. 

"How  could  she  deny  herself  to  her  friends?"  she  would 
say  sweetly.     "Was  not  her  beauty  apparent  to  all?" 

Some  such  remark  would  be  followed  by  a  sigh  and  a 
deliberate  kiss.  The  jury  of  one  found  her  not  guilty. 
At  this  she  would  smile,  wind  herself  closely  round  his 
slack  body  and  forbid  him  to  speak.  She  remembered 
how  he  had  begged  her  to  accompany  him  for  a  few  days' 
holiday  in  the  mountains.  He  had  looked  ill  and  harassed 
at  the  time,  and  Terezia  had  not  hesitated  to  comply 
immediately  with  his  request. 

So  they  had  gone  picnicking  in  the  woods — only  those 
two — gay  as  irresponsible  children.  Terezia  had  wanted 
to  bring  her  little  Georges  to  complete  the  family  party, 
but  Tallien  had  shown  himself  adverse  to  her  motherly 
solicitude.  He  disliked  the  boys'  bright  manner  and  his 
devotion  to  Terezia.  He  was  jealous  even  of  her  son. 
Terezia  bore  his  unkindness  to  Georges  with  admirable 
patience.  She  seldom  saw  the  boy.  He  still  lived  with 
his  uncle  and  aunt  under  Christina's  careful  charge.  He 
would  have  been  in  her  way  at  Bordeaux.  Besides,  "the 
darling"  was  safer  at  his  great-uncle's  house,  where  he 
had  a  larger  nursery  than  she  could  have  afforded  him. 
Terezia  would  tell  her  friends  that  a  mother  must  sacrifice 
her  own  feelings  where  her  child's  happiness  was  concerned. 
She  had  given  up  everything  for  Georges'  sake — even  her 
dear  old  maid.  She  missed  Christina  immensely — so  she 
said.  In  reality  she  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  her  "unwarrant- 
able interference."  Old  servants  (she  thought)  were  a 
terrible  nuisance. 

Well,  as  we  have  said,  Tallien  and  Terezia  had  their 
outing.  They  climbed  up  a  steep  mountain  path,  and, 
under  the  shadow  of  an  immense  cliff,  they  looked  down 
on  the  world. 

They  lodged  In  an  ancient  and  forsaken  cottage  and 
played  at  simplicity  to  an  accompaniment  of  champagne, 
dainty  food  and  feather  beds.    Terezia  had  ordered  these 


TERROR  239 

necessities  to  be  sent  up  to  the  empty  cottage,  as  a  sur- 
prise to  Tallien  and  a  satisfaction  to  herself. 

She  was  always  ready  for  a  new  experience,  and,  as  the 
weather  was  heavenly,  they  spent  their  first  evening  on 
the  moonlit  terrace  verj''  happily  engaged. 

Terezia  had  dressed  herself,  after  cottage  fashion,  in  a 
simple  blue  cottage  gown,  and  wore  her  splendid  hair  in 
a  shining  knot  at  her  neck.  It  was  before  the  great  scene 
where  shears  played  a  drastic  part. 

Tallien's  performance  in  the  part  of  the  rustic  lover 
lacked  all  distinction.  Tallien  always  remained  himself, 
foxy,  vain,  grasping.  At  least  he  had  made  the  most  of 
his  hour;  when  he  fell  asleep  the  full  August  moon  had 
wandered  home,  and  Terezia  la}^  as  some  handsome, 
healthy  animal,  sunk  in  profound  repose,  her  long  limbs 
luxuriously  stretched  beneath  a  coverlet  of  stitched  silk 
and  eiderdown.  No  doubt  the  little  forsaken  cottage  had 
stared  amazed  at  its  strange  occupants. 

Terezia  remembered  how,  on  the  whole,  she  had  disliked 
this  senseless  excursion  into  the  unreal.  The  second  morn- 
ing broke  misty  and  cold.  She  had  woken  in  a  peevish 
temper.  She  had  wanted  her  coffee,  her  bath  and  a  thou- 
sand unobtainable  necessities. 

Roused  by  Terezia,  Tallien  had  lit  the  fire  and  boiled 
the  coffee,  but  he  failed  to  improve  his  lady's  humor.  The 
day  had  ended  in  a  lover's  quarrel;  the  descent  was  rapid. 
Once  in  her  own  comfortable  apartment  at  Bordeaux, 
Terezia  was  not  only  pleased  to  smile,  but  even  to  lavish 
her  thanks  on  her  sorrowful  lover.  She  had  enjoyed  her- 
self immensely,  she  said.  (An  excursion  is  never  so  lovely 
as  when  viewed  in  the  retrospect. )  In  fact,  they  had  never 
agreed  so  well  as  on  the  evening  of  their  retuni  to  civiliza- 
tion. They  were  as  two  perfectly  tuned  viols — voices, 
thoughts,  gestures  of  one  subtle  harmony.  Terezia  re- 
membered how  she  had  enjoyed  her  carefully-served  din- 
ner, the  shaded  lamplight,  her  pretty  dress,  her  lavish 
perfume,  the  day's  news  and  rumors  from  Paris.     Tallien 


240  TORCHLIGHT 

had  looked  quite  distinguished  In  black  velvet  and  silver 
buttons.  .  .  . 

Terezia  sighed  and  broke  off  her  musings  to  look  at  the 
door.  Why  was  Guerj  so  late.''  What  had  happened.'' 
Had  Tallien  sent  her  to  Paris  for  some  nefarious  purpose.'' 
She  dismissed  the  idea  as  preposterous.  She  remembered 
his  genuine  fears  for  her  safety,  how  he  had  urged  her 
return,  and  how,  to  pacify  his  uneasiness,  she  had  meekly 
submitted  to  his  plans.  His  fears  had  touched  her  lightly. 
.  .  .  Tallien's  enormous  feet  would  always  secure  her  a 
safe  passage  through  difficult  places. 

Even  a  flight  can  be  managed  agreeably.  She  had  not 
mentioned  on  parting  from  the  strangely  subdued  lion 
that  she  had  offered  a  seat  In  her  commodious  traveling 
carriage  to  young  Guery.  She  had  managed  the  depart- 
ure from  Bordeaux  very  cleverly.  Terezia  loved  an  in- 
trigue. If  Tallien  had,  as  it  were,  handed  her  youthful 
admirer  into  her  carriage  with  all  due  recognition  of  his 
usefulness  on  the  journey,  she  would  have  lost  every  shred 
of  interest  In  his   companionship. 

As  It  was,  she  had  been,  all  the  wearisome  roadway, 
sensibly  gay,  sweet  and  lovable. 

After  Tallien's  crude  love-making — at  times  rough  as 
the  hug  of  a  bear — the  young  man's  restrained  and  ex- 
quisite sentiments  pleased  her.  Dear  boy,  Instinctively 
he  raised  the  level  of  true  love  to  very  high  art.  Is  not 
sincerity  the  key  of  expression.? 

She  had  borne  the  journey  admirably.  She  was  quite 
content  to  sun  herself  in  the  cult  of  Young  Love  and  Deep 
Respect — even  though  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  thought 
poorly  of  Deep  Respect.  Deep  respect  and  love  were 
to  her  strange  associates. 

The  whole  journey  had  been  wonderfully  bracing  and 
divinely  new.  Only  once  had  the  young  man  forgotten 
himself  so  far  as  to  give  her  a  chaste  and  breathless 
salute.     Terezia  had  never  known  a  sweeter  kiss. 

She  had  drawn  herself  up  proudly  in  the  jolting,  dusty 
carriage,  and  very  gently  she  had  asked  him  to  remember 


TERROR  241 

•what  was  due  to  her.  Tears  had  gathered  in  her  eyes 
as  she  spoke — the  tears  of  a  lovely,  defenceless  woman, 
sure  prey  of  evil  man. 

The  youth  had  blushed  hotly.  The  blood  had  sung  in 
his  ears.  He  had  sworn  to  himself  never  again  to  hurt  her 
sweet  susceptibilities.  .  .   . 

On  the  fourth  day  they  arrived  in  Paris,  and  long  before 
then  had  promised  each  other  eternal  friendsliip. 

Only  two  hours  ago  Terezia  had  dismissed  the  handsome 
boy,  with  an  invitation  to  supper. 

"Go,"  she  had  said,  "and  make  yourself  presentable, 
mon  cceur,  and  above  all  bring  me  back  a  sheaf  of  news. 
I  am  dying  to  know  what  they  are  saying  in  Paris.  Am 
I  forgotten?'*  She  had  clutched  at  his  tapering  fingers. 
"Have  we  put  ourselves  in  danger?"  she  breathed.  "Mon 
coeur,  promise  me  not  to  leave  me  alone  to-night." 

Promise!  Why,  the  young  fool  had  not  expected  such 
supreme  permission. 

His  eager  words  tripped  each  other.  He  said  he  would 
guard  her  and  adore  her  all  the  days  of  his  life.  He  called 
her  rapturous  names — his  beautiful  princess,  his  divine 
angel,  his  white  rose.  He  assured  her  he  was  totally  un- 
worthy to  serve  her. 

Terezia  had  sighed,  looking  a  little  distraite  as  her  eyes 
wandered  over  her  new  quarters. 

She  could  hear  her  new  maid,  Clarisse,  a  pert  young 
woman,  slamming  the  drawers  in  her  dressing-room.  She 
shivered.  In  some  ways  she  missed  grim  old  Christina, 
with  her  big,  staring  eyes  and  firmly  shut  mouth.  In  some 
ways  she  had  been  useful.  ...  A  mother's  heart  is  capa- 
ble of  great  sacrifices. 

Young  Guery  had  been  informed  of  her  unselfish  devo- 
tion and  had,  of  course,  responded  in  a  suitable  manner. 
He  had  said  her  behavior  was  worthy  of  a  Roman  matron, 
and  that  she  was  a  heroine. 

The  dear  boy  was  rather  given  to  superlatives  of  speech. 
He  meant  very  well  indeed. 

How  difficult  it  had  been  to  move  him,  for  instance,  this 


242  TORCHLIGHT 

afternoon,  from  the  borderland  of  rosy  romance  and  get 
him  to  grapple  with  facts.  She  had  had  eventually  to 
push  him  out  of  the  room. 

"The  sooner  you  go  the  sooner  you  will  return,"  she 
had  said  very  sensibly.  "I  will  count  the  minutes,  dar- 
ling." 

He  had  kissed  her  hand  gustily  and  bolted  down  the 
echoing  stairway,  waving  his  hat  in  the  air,  full  of  boyish 
assurance. 

He  had  been  gone  three  hours  when  Terezia  heard  his 
timid  knock  on  the  sitting-room  door. 

She  was  angry  with  him  for  being  so  late,  so  she  closed 
her  ej'es  and  lay  very  still  on  the  sofa. 

"Come  in,"  she  said  faintly. 

He  opened  the  door  very  gently  and  advanced  on  the 
tips  of  his  toes  across  the  parquet  floor. 

He  looked  down  at  Terezia  and  whispered,  "You  are 
resting?" 

"No,  waiting." 

"For  me !"     His  voice  rose  two  octaves. 

Still  she  did  not  open  her  eyes.     "For  news." 

He  was  disappointed,  so  he  said  nothing,  but  dashed 
his  buckled  hat,  whidi  he  carried  under  his  arm,  upon  a 
chair  and,  kneeling  down  by  her  couch,  he  took  her  hand 
out  and  gently  kissed  each  finger  separately.  Then  turn- 
ing the  palm  outwards  he  pressed  his  lips  passionately  to 
her  soft  flesh.  Terezia  smiled  and  handed  him  her  other 
hand.     He  repeated  the  performance. 

"FooHsh  boy,"  she  said,  and  vouchsafed  him  a  glance. 

Then  she  stroked  his  shining  hair.  "When  I  arrive 
at  a  decision,"  she  said,  "I  never  change  my  mind." 

"In  that  respect  we  are  exactly  alike." 

"Are  we,  you  naughty  boy?" 

"How  I  love  you !"  he  murmured. 

"Get  up,"  she  said.     "This  isn't  the  time  for  folly.'* 
'Folly!— is  it  folly  to  be  happy?" 


ii^ 


TERROR  243 

She  extricated  herself  from  his  encircling  arms,  and  sat 
up  very  straight,  looking  extremely  fresh  and  self-assured. 

"I  can  trust  you,  mon  cosur,"  she  said.  "How  nice  you 
look!     Sit  down  on  that  chair  and  tell  me  everything." 

She  had  to  whip  him  with  eager  questions  to  get  any 
sense  out  of  his  story.  It  was  a  lame  report.  What  was 
he  hiding?  Evidently  they  had  not  (as  she  had  fondly 
hoped)  sickened  of  bloodshed  in  Paris. 

Terezia,  as  soon  as  she  had  realized  this  alarming  fact, 
stamped  her  foot  on  the  ground  and  cried  out: 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it!  Terror  is  dead  in  Paris. 
A  fashion  always  lingers  longer  in  the  provinces.  You 
jdon't  know  what  you  are  speaking  of.     Who  told  you?" 

*'Robespierre." 

For  the  space  of  a  minute  she  said  nothing. 

"He — he  himself?"  she  stuttered. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  flung  her  arms  round  the  young 
man's  neck. 

*'Mon  cceur"  she  moaned,  "they  won't  rest  till  they  have 
killed  m©." 


F 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

OR  the  moment  Terezia  was  really  frightened.  She 
clung  convulsively  to  the  pale  young  man.  She  held 
up  her  lips  and  mutely  implored  a  kiss.  There  was  nothing 
repulsive  in  her  action.  A  child  might  have  done  the  same 
in  need  of  pity,  in  need  of  sympathy.  For  the  moment 
Terezia — shameless  coquette  that  she  was — was  sexless. 
She  did  not  regard  Guery  in  the  light  of  an  emotional 
young  man  who  would  very  probably  misconstrue  the 
touch  of  her  moist  lips. 

He  kissed  her  and  trembled  out  of  sheer  physical  de- 
light; she  kissed  him  and  trembled  out  of  sheer  physical 
terror.  How  could  he  tell  the  nicety  of  difference?  Da 
we  not  always  seek  in  others  the  reflection  of  ourselves.'* 

Terezia  was  frightened  of  death — of  a  fate  worse  than 
death. 

In  a  flash  she  saw  before  her  the  loathsome  prison  dun- 
geons at  Bordeaux — their  squalor,  their  darkness;  she 
seemed  to  breathe  the  putrid  atmosphere,  to  feel  her  way 
in  the  congested  crowd — to  catch  sight,  by  the  light  of  a 
flickering  torch,  of  a  pale,  worn  face,  fever-ridden,  terror- 
haunted — her  own  face!  She  saw  herself  one  of  that 
hopeless  company,  caught  in  the  toils  of  devilish  wicked- 
ness. She  had  realized  the  futility  of  Tallien's  boasted 
protection.  He  was  quite  capable  of  denouncing  her  him- 
self. He  would  sacrifice  her  to  save  his  own  miserable 
carcass.  Why  had  she  believed  in  him?  Why  had  she 
trusted  him?     Why  had  she  treated  him  so  royally? 

The  room  rocked  around  her  and  suddenly  grew  dark. 

"Save  me!"  she  moaned,  hardly  knowing  what  she  said. 
What  could  the  boy  do  but  hold  her  still  closer?  She  re- 
membered Tallien's  fierce  jealousy,  and  she  felt  inclined 
to  hate  Guery. 

244 


TERROR  245 

She  let  go  her  hold  on  his  shoulder.  She  sank  back  on 
the  couch  and  feverishly  searched  for  her  handkerchief. 
It  had  slipped  away  among  the  laces  of  her  bodice. 

He  watched  the  flush  on  her  white  forehead,  the  beat 
of  a  pulse  in  the  splendid  column  of  her  throat — a  tiny 
tendril  of  amber  hair  falling  on  her  neck.  She  was  beau- 
tiful. 

"I  will  save  you,"  he  said,  confidently. 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"I  must  not  behave  as  a  fool,"  she  said.  "Why  don't 
you  scold  me?     A  hard  beating  would  settle  my  nerves." 

Terezia,  as  she  spoke,  smiled  at  the  suggestion.  He 
looked  so  elegant,  so  tender,  so  young,  so  utterly  in- 
capable of  giving  anyone  a  beating,  least  of  all  herself. 

She  made  a  place  for  him  on  the  sofa.  "Sit  down," 
she  said,  "and  tell  me  every  little  thing." 

"Are  you  feeling  better?"  he  asked  as  a  preliminary. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  petulantly.  "Go  on  with  your 
story." 

"On  leaving  you  I  went  to  my  rooms.  I  had  hardly 
finished  dressing  before  a  letter  was  brought  to  me  by  a 
stranger,  an  old  man  of  quiet  and  respectable  appear- 


ance." 


"Yes?"  (Who  cared  if  he  was  respectable  or  not! 
Was  there  ever  such  an  irritating  fool?) 

"The  letter  —  just  two  lines  —  was  from  Maximllien 
Robespierre." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"I  was  to  give  myself  the  honor  of  calling  on  him  with- 
out a  moment's  delay  in  the  interest  of  a  certain  lady." 

"The  villain!" 

"I  dashed  on  my  hat  and,  immediately,  accompanied  by 
the  messenger,  set  out  to  have  the  matter  explained.  I 
can  tell  you  I  was  in  a  fine  fit  of  rage.  I  gathered  that 
your  arrival  in  Paris  had  been  notified  at  headquarters. 

Robespierre Lie  down,  sweetheart.     This  is  a  most 

unfortunate  business." 

Terezia  felt  nigh  to  screaming. 


246  TORCHLIGHT 

"How  (did  he  find  us  out?  Tell  me,  how  did  he  find  us 
out?" 

"Perhaps  Tallien " 

"Tallien!  He  is  my  friend,  my  very  devoted  friend. 
He  loves  me."  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
trembled. 

The  3'oung  man  breathed  heavily.  He  bent  over  her 
and  roughly  took  hold  of  her  hands.  "Madame,  you  have 
concealed  the  truth,"  he  said,  his  eyes  burning  with  anger. 

"Poor  precious  idiot!  Can  you  hide  a  mountain  with 
this  bit  of  lace?"  She  tossed  her  handkerchief  in  the  air. 
He  let  it  fall  at  her  feet.  "Take  it — it  is  wet  with  my 
tears.  Of  course  Talhen  loves  Terezia."  She  spoke  with 
slow  voluptuousness.  "Cannot  you  see  that  is  our  one 
hope  of  safety?  I  have  him  under  my  heel.  He  would 
do  anything  for  me.  He  is  every  bit  as  big  a  scoundrel  as 
Robespierre,"  she  added,  reflectively.  "We'll  set  them 
at  each  other." 

"Robespierre  is  an  angel  of  pity  compared  to  Tallien. 
With  what  delight  would  I  plunge  my  dagger  in  his  false 
heart !     Don't  believe  in  your  lover,  madame." 

His  lips  quivered.  He  tried  to  speak  with  fine  disin- 
terestedness, but  his  voice  vibrated  with  pain  and  righteous 
indignation. 

She  had  as  much -as  admitted  her  guilt.  .  .  .  Tallien 
loved  Terezia.  .  .  .  The  consequence  was  that  Terezia, 
in  spite  of  her  repeated  assertions  to  the  contrary,  loved 
Tallien.  Was  ever  youth  beset  by  a  worse  tangle?  She 
was  deeply  involved.  Her  natural  purity  stood  accused. 
She  had  sacrificed  herself  in  the  interests  of  mankind.  It 
flashed  upon  him  that  there  was  an  ulterior  and  sublime 
motive  for  her  behavior.  Bordeaux  had  rung  with  her 
praises.  Had  she  not  tenfold  deserved  her  title,  "Our 
Lady  of  Compassion"?  Who  can  sound  the  depths  of  a 
noble  woman's  heart?  She  must  have  suffered  all  the 
agonies  of  hell.  And  here  was  he  ready  to  upbraid  her, 
to  scorn  her,  to  cast  her  out  of  his  life  as  unworthy. 
Terezia   studied    the    conflicting   misery    on    the   boy's 


TERROR  247 

mobile  face.  She  dimly  realized  his  thoughts.  She  was 
angry  with  him.  She  hated  his  high-flown  notions  of 
Deep  Love  and  Deep  Respect.  They  had  floundered  in  a 
quagmire,  let  them  sink! 

His  very  youthful  prettiness  filled  her  with  distaste. 
His  blonde  and  silky  hair,  his  smooth  chin,  his  red  lips, 
his  white  teeth,  his  ridiculous  baby  eyes,  blue  as  forget-me- 
nots.  In  truth  he  was  a  simpleton,  a  coxcomb,  and  a 
menace  to  her  personal  safety. 

Young  Guery,  in  a  spasm  of  agony,  bit  his  lips  and 
turned  his  face  from  Terezia's  blinkless  stare. 

Her  thoughts  leaped  ahead  to  the  near  future.  Her 
anger  turned  to  acute  self-pity.  The  hatefulness  of  her 
position  struck  her  with  the  force  of  a  stinging  blow. 

Her  face  melted  into  extraordinary  tenderness. 

*^Mon  coeur,"  she  cried,  hardly  above  a  whisper,  "j^ou 
shall  help  me  to  bear  ni}"^  suffering.  I  can  trust  you.  Your 
love  is  the  only  consolation  I  have.  I  wonder  how  it  feels, 
the  touch  of  that  cold,  shai-p  knife!  I  am  not  a  coward 
at  heart.  I  am  going  to  be  very  brave.  I  won't  cry  when 
my  time  comes  ...  a  moment's  numbing  suspense  .  .  . 
and  then  glory." 

She  sat  very  quiet,  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  her  beautiful 
face. 

"Look  at  me,  my  friend.  You  see  I  am  prepared  for 
the  worst  and  quite  calm.'* 

"Terezia !" 

"Do  you  believe  in  God  and  all  His  angels?  Did  you 
love  your  mother?" 

"You  must  not,  Terezia.   ..."  ^ 

She  had  succeeded  in  thawing  him. 

His  heart  beat  to  suffocation.  Standing  close  beside 
her,  he  looked  down  at  her  with  a  world  of  contrition  and 
tender  affection  in  his  forget-me-not-blue  eyes.  His  divin- 
ity was  a  woman  in  need  of  protection.  His  youth  folded 
her  closely  as  in  a  mantle.  He  felt  himself  a  man,  for  all 
his  poor  seventeen  years — a  man  full  grown  and  strong. 

She  sat  motionless. 


248  TORCHLIGHT 

"You  are  the  best  woman  in  all  the  world  !'*  he  declared 
stoutly,  by  sheer  force  of  will  reinstating  his  lady  in  her 
former  glory.  He  flung  Tallien's  huge  bulk,  as  it  were, 
in  the  mud.  He  didn't  count!  He,  Guery,  would  treat 
him  with  the  contempt  he  deserved.  By  the  Lord's  grace, 
he  would!  It  was  as  clear  as  the  blessed  sunlight  that, 
she,  Terezia,  had  never  cared  for  him.     Never!     Never! 

He  repeated  his  superlative  assurance  over  and  over 
again  with  triumphant  conviction,  as  he  watched  her  half- 
fearful,  half-defiant  helplessness. 

She  broke  off  the  thread  of  his  reflection  by  remarking, 
"Whether  or  not  Tallien  plays  me  false,  Robespierre  wiU 
never  incline  his  heart  to  mercy.  I  am  in  a  sorry  plight, 
darling  boy.     Tell  me,  how  did  he  broach  the  subject.''" 

"He  questioned  me " 

"Such  an  easy  task,"  she  murmured. 

"I  was  extremely  careful." 

"Yes?" 

"By  some  evil  chance  he  knew  of  your  arrival." 

"A  chance.?" 

"As  luck  would  have  it  he  was  actually  at  the  window 
of  his  office  when  we  drove  down  the  Rue  de  St.  Honore. 
He  sent  you  his  kind  regards  and  hoped  you  were  com- 
fortable." 

"You  gave  him  my  address.'"* 

"No  need.  He  had  it  already.  How  do  those  people 
find  out  things,'^" 

Terezia  nodded.     "And  what  else?" 

"He  said  he  would  give  himself  the  pleasure  of  calling 
on  you  at  his  first  opportunity — probably  to-morrow. 
He  said  you  were  a  very  attractive  lady,  but  hardly  pru- 
dent enough,  at  that  he  smiled  and  asked  after  Tallien's 
health." 

Terezia's  eyes  flashed.  "Guery,  I  am  looking  forward 
to  a  struggle  sharp  and  lively.  If  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst  this  will  serve  me." 

She  rose  and  fetched  a  little  satin-wood  box  lined  with 


TERROR  249 

bhie  velvet.  "Look!  is  it  not  a  darling?  I  bought  it  in 
Bordeaux  for  a  mere  song,  and  a  woman's  whim." 

She  showed  him  a  little  toy  dagger,  cunningly  chiseled 
with  a  twisted  gold  handle.  The  handle  was  tied  with  a 
pink  silk  bow,  tasseled  with  gold. 

She  toyed  with  it  and  pressed  its  smooth  surface  across 
her  cheek.  Then  she  replaced  it  in  its  box  and  returned 
to  her  seat  by  the  fire. 

She  smoothed  her  draperies  and  sat  as  immovable  as  the 
world  of  nature  before  the  storm  breaks.  The  fireli^t 
caught  the  diamond  buckle  on  her  pale  slippered  foot, 
and  it  shone  with  a  thousand  iridescent  reflections. 

The  young  man  mechanically  replaced  a  log  which,  in 
its  fall,  had  not  disturbed  Terezia.  He  kicked  it  into 
place,  throwing  on  at  the  same  time  a  fresh  one  from 
the  carved  wood  box.  The  flames  burst  into  triumph  and 
raced  up  the  wide  chimney. 

Outside,  the  patter  of  rain  fell  on  the  cobbled  yard. 
From  very  far  off  the  rumble  of  a  passing  coach  broke 
the  quiet  of  the  night.  They  two  seemed  shut  in  upon 
themselves. 

"Terezia," he  began. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  faint  smile  hovering  round  her 
closely-set  lips.  He  was  not  capable  of  listening  to 
reason.  He  was  giddy  and  sick  with  love  .  .  .  truly  life 
had  given  him  joy. 

"Do  you  know  how  old  I  am?"  she  asked  inconse- 
quently. 

"You  are  very  young. 

"I  am  twenty,  just  twenty.  As  years  go  I  am  not 
actually  old,  but  I  have  had  good  value  for  my  life."  She 
stretched  her  arms  lovingly  to  the  blaze.  "How  I  adore 
warmth  and  comfort!  Yes,  mon  coeur,  supposing  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst,  the  waste  places  in  my  life  have 
been  negligible." 

He  looked  at  her  with  dawning  comprehension. 

His  words  trembled  with  a  passion  of  regret. 


5> 


250  TORCHLIGHT 

"My  poor  darling,"  he  said.  "Life  has  treated  you 
very  badly."  He  threw  his  head  back  and  clutched  the 
hilt  of  his  rapier. 

She  sighed.     "I  am  only  speaking  the  truth,"  she  said. 

"It  is  vile." 

"Silly  boy !  Some  people  wait  all  their  lives  for  love  and 
only  achieve  dulness.  My  face  is  my  very  good  friend." 
She  spoke  gratefully. 

He  came  round  and  knelt  at  her  knees  amid  the  shat- 
tered ruin — of  Love's  young  dream.  He  had  no  right 
to  judge  her.  Her  present  position  was  frightful.  Did 
she  realize  the  horror  which  engulfed  her?  It  flashed  upon 
him  that,  in  spite  of  everytliing,  he  adored  her. 

She  bent  down  and  rubbed  her  smooth  cheek  against 
his.     "Dear  boy !"  she  said. 

She  said  it  with  genuine  kindness.  She  felt  old  enough 
to  be  his  mother,  in  spite  of  lus  seventeen  years. 

"So  you  are  jealous  of  Terezia's  past?  As  if  the  dead 
years  mattered !  They  are  dead,  my  dear,  dust  and  ashes. 
We  live  for  to-day  and  we  think  of  to-morrow.  I  was 
married  to  a  brute." 

''Si,  si." 

"Your  hair  is  like  silk,"  she  said,  kissing  his  forehead. 

Her  tender  voice  blotted  out  the  sight  of  Tallien's 
^gantic  greed.     Poor  girl ! 

Terezia  was  in  an  expansive  mood.  She  looked  into  the 
dancing  firelight  with  her  big  soft  eyes  fuU  of  wounded 
astonishment. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  truth,"  she  said.  "I  am  vain,  grasp- 
ing, cruel,  abominably  selfish.  If  I  loved  you  I'd  turn 
you  out  into  the  cold  street.  I  am  indifferent  to  every- 
thing which  does  not  give  me  pleasure." 

He  tightened  his  hold  on  her  hand. 

"Terezia!" 

*'I  have  trapped  you,  young  Guery,  trapped  you  by  my 
beauty,  my  mystery,  my  wantonness."  She  gave  him  a 
sudden  push.  "Well,  listen,  mon  cceur.  I  am  not  wholly 
bad — as  God  lives,  I  am  not  wholly  bad!" 


TERROR  251 

She  jumped  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  flashing. 

For  one  moment  they  faced  each  other. 

"Good  night,"  she  said.  "Go  home  and  dream  of  a 
maligned  woman  transfoi*med  into  a  winged  angel.  .  .  . 
Guery,  Guery,  I  want  to  live!" 

She  broke  down  and  wept,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"The  pity  of  life !"  she  breathed.  "For  what  purpose 
are  we  born  into  this  sad  world,  where  all  is  confusion  and 
wickedness?" 

"Terezia !" 

"Go !"  she  said.  "Go !  Can't  you  see  I  am  already 
regretting  my  generosity.'*" 

He  laughed  aloud. 

"With  your  very  kind  permission  I  am  going  to  have 
some  supper.     I  am  very  hungry." 

She  dried  her  eyes.  "You  can  stay  to  supper  if  you 
promise  to  leave  me  the  moment  we  have  finished." 

He  kissed  her  hand,  and  said  he  would  give  the  matter 
his  serious  consideration.  "It  is  a  very  wet  night,"  he 
added. 

"You  obstinate  wretch!"  smiled  Terezia.  "Ring;  the 
bell,  will  you?" 

When  Clarisse  appeared,  looking  sulky  and  hot,  Terezia 
told  her  to  light  all  the  candles  in  the  chandelier  and  to 
replenish  the  fire. 

"Is  supper  ready?" 

"Yes,  citoyenne.^' 

"That's  nice.  Come  along,  mon  cceur,  and  we'll  see 
what  the  unknown  cook  has  provided.  Make  up  the  fire, 
Clarisse,  and  don't  forget  to  warm  my  bed.  I  have  been 
shivering  all  the  evening.  I  wonder  if  the  rooms  have 
been  properly  aired." 

"They  are  like  ice  cellars,'*  said  Clarisse.  "Where  is 
the  young  gentleman  to  sleep?"  She  played  with  her 
apron  and  looked  supercilious. 

"I'll  tell  you  later,"  said  Terezia  coldly,  as,  followed  by 
Guery,  she  passed  into  the  dining-room. 


252  TORCHLIGHT 

It  was  a  small  cheerful  room  with  white  paneled  walls 
and  crimson-curtained  windows.  On  the  walls  hung  sev- 
eral family  portraits. 

"What  a  pretty  room!"  exclaimed  Terezia.  "By  the 
way,  whose  house  is  it?  Hot  soup,  chicken,  jelly  and 
lovely  fruit!     Aren't  we  lucky?'* 

She  sat  down  at  the  head  of  the  little  round  table 
daintily  set  out  with  china  and  silver.  There  were  four 
massive  silver  candlesticks  on  the  table,  each  with  its 
lighted  candle. 

"Whose  house  is  it?'*  she  repeated.  "The  silver  is 
splendid,  and  look  at  this  china  dish — it  is  certainly  worth 
a  lot  of  money.  I  know  that  woman."  She  glanced  at 
the  portrait  opposite  her.  "Guery,  you  shan't  have  any 
soup  if  you  don't  answer!" 

"Let  me  give  you  some  wine,  darling." 

Terezia  pushed  aside  her  glass.  "Answer  me.  Whose 
house  is  it?" 

"Nobody's  at  present.  Belonged  to  a  friend  of  mine. 
I  happened  to  know  the  woman  left  in  charge.  She  has 
been  for  years  in  the  service  of  the  St.  Innocents '* 

"The  St.  Innocents!'* 

Terezia  glanced  round  the  room  with  great  staring 
eyes. 

"The  young  people,  you  know.  Jacques,  some  five  or 
six  years  ago,  married  his  cousin,  Mademoiselle  de  Longue- 
ville;  they  were  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long.  Full  of 
pranks.  They  really  behaved  as  babies,  though  they 
were  awfully  proud  of  their  own  baby — a  fat  little  crea- 
ture with  the  family  nose '* 

"They  are  guillotined,  you  mean?" 

The  boy  nodded. 

"When  did  it  happen?" 

"In  November." 

Terezia  stared  at  the  portrait  facing  her.  It  repre- 
sented a  handsome,  elderly  woman  in  a  decollete  dress 
jnth  a  knot  of  crimson  ribbon  at  her  bust.     She  wore  a 


TERROR  253 

lace  head-dress  on  her  high  coiffure.  Her  eyes  were  dark 
and  sparkling. 

Guery,  with  an  unsteady  hand,  poured  the  soup  into 
two  large  cups.  His  hand  shook  so  that  a  few  drops  were 
spilled  on  the  damask  cloth.  Terezia  did  not  notice  his 
clumsiness.  She  was  still  staring  at  the  portrait  of  her 
old  enemy.  It  was  a  life-like  portrait  of  Jacques'  digni- 
fied mother. 

"His  mother  and  his  sisters  had  a  much  worse  fate. 
They  were  victims  of  the  September  massacres.  Also  the 
old  people,  I  believe.  The  whole  family  has  been  extermi- 
nated." 

"Darling,"  he  said,  "don't  think  of  horrors  to-night. 
You  are  tired  after  the  journey  and  worried  about  your- 
self." 

She  laughed  hysterically.  "You'll  die  a  judge, — a 
famous  criminal  judge,"  she  said. 

She  poured  herself  out  a  glass  of  wine,  broke  off  a  piece 
of  bread  and  dipped  it  into  the  wine.  The  first  mouthful 
choked  her.     She  burst  into  tears. 

"I  can't  bear  it !  I  can't  bear  it !"  she  sobbed.  "It  is 
too  horrible  for  words.  Why  did  you  bring  me  here.'* 
You  are  a  fool.  The  St.  Innocents  never  liked  me — they 
would  just  hate  me  staying  here."  She  pointed  to  the 
portrait.  "Lizette's  mother  is  looking  at  m.e  now  as 
much  as  to  say,  'Never  mind,  it  will  be  your  turn  next. 
I  never  flinched.  Behave,  if  you  can,  like  a  lady.'  I  can 
hear  her  cold  voice.  I  can  see  her  haughty,  indifferent 
glance.  She  always  treated  me  as  dirt  beneath  her  feet. 
If  ever  there  was  a  pompous,  dull  old  creature  it  was 
Madame  St.  Innocent.  She  was  full  of  prejudices,  full 
of  silly  little  maxims.  .  .  ."  Terezia  broke  off  sud- 
denly. "One  must  not  speak  against  the  dead,"  she  said 
solemnly. 

"Darling " 

"I  mustn't  cry.  Forgive  me."  She  gave  him  a  melan- 
choly smile.  "After  all,  I'm  not  so  dreadfully  greedy, 
am  I?    All  I  want  is  to  live,  and,  yes,  a  little  happiness." 


254  TORCHLIGHT 

The  boy's  eyes  welled  with  loving  sympathy.  He  felt 
ready  to  go  through  unmentionable  torture  to  save  her 
an  unnecessary  sigh. 

In  the  charged  atmosphere  each  sound  was  magnified 
tenfold.  Clarisse,  slamming  her  dishes  in  the  pantry  close 
by  and  singing  over  her  work,  was  intolerably  audible. 

"Drink  your  soup,  darling.     It'll  be  quite  cold." 

She  pushed  her  soup  listlessly  aside. 

*'I'm  not  hungry." 

He  got  up  and  uncovered  a  silver  dish  keeping  hot  over 
a  spirit-lamp. 

"You  must  eat  some  chicken." 

"I  can't  eat  anything." 

He  placed  before  her  a  wing  of  the  fowl  with  nice  potato 
straws  and  creamed  cliomipignons. 

"For  my  sake,  Terezia,  be  a  good  girl.  You  must  keep 
up  your  strength." 

She  played  with  her  food.  "It  is  rather  nice,"  she  said, 
"but  you  can't  expect  me  to  have  an  appetite,  I'm  too 
nei'vous.  The  least  little  thing  would  make  me  scream. 
And  yet  I  don't  seem  to  have  any  feeling  at  all.  Every- 
thing is  unreal  to-night,  you  and  I  and  Paris — great  big 
wicked  Paris — this  horrible  little  room — everything  ex- 
cept memory." 

"Yes,"  he  said.     *'Yes." 

He  ate  tremendously  fast,  surreptitiously  watching 
Terezia,  who  swallowed  infinitesimal  morsels  of  chicken 
and  copious  draughts  of  wine. 

She  sighed  at  intervals,  but  her  spirits  were  improving. 
She  had — unconsciously — eaten  all  her  food  and — uncon- 
sciously— it  hadn't  choked  her. 

He  kept  up  a  desultory  conversation  with  great  earnest- 
ness.    "I'm  not  going  to  leave  you  to-night,"  he  said. 

She  nodded. 

"You  must  go  early  to  bed." 

She  was  quite  amenable.  He  would  shift  for  himself 
in  the  sitting-room.  By  Jove,  he'd  sleep  like  a  top  any- 
where .   .  .  he'd  choose  a  book  when  left  alone.     If  sleep 


TERROR  255 

was  out  of  the  question  he'd  read  by  the  firelight.  He 
rather  looked  forward  to  liis  sorrowful  vigil.  Morning 
would  bring  him  counsel.  He  was  determined  to  save 
her  life,  even  at  the  expense  of  his  own.  He  and  the 
cook  between  them  would  smuggle  her  out  of  danger  .  .  . 
one  day  she'd  remember  and  thank  him.  She  would  re- 
member him.  What  glory !  His  loving  thought  leaped 
years  ahead  to  the  noble  tranquillity  of  Terezia's  happy 
old  age,  when  they  were  rudely  interrupted  by  a  peal  at 
the  haU  bell,  accompanied  by  rattling  blows  on  the  door. 

"There,"  said  Terezia,  in  her  calmest  manner.  "I  told 
you  so," 

Young  Guery  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Sit  down,"  she  commanded.  "There's  no  hurry.  Let 
them  knock." 

Clarisse  came  hurrying  into  the  room,  talking  volubly. 
It  seemed  there  was  a  crowd  of  people  waiting  below,  in 
the  courtyard.  She  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  noth- 
ing! They  were  carrying  on  terribly;  howling.  It  was 
pouring  with  rain.  Such  a  night !  a  night  of  horror ! 
She  must  go  and  answer  the  bell.  What  was  the  good 
of  resistance.''  No  one  resisted  in  Paris  without  suffering. 
In  justice  to  herself 

Terezia  held  up  her  hand — a  pretty  little  hand  covered 
with  sparkling  rings.  It  quite  amused  her  to  see  young 
Guery's  pained  expression — he  took  his  love  very  seri- 
ously, also  his  responsibility.  What  had  he  to  do  with  it.'* 
It  was  fate — and  Tallien.  Her  beautiful  eyes  narrowed 
dangerously.  At  that  moment  she  felt  nothing  but  con- 
tempt for  her  lion — a  beastly  mangy  lion. 

She  got  up,  tail  and  straight,  with  something  rather 
grand  about  her  attitude.  There  was  not  a  shadow  of 
terror  in  her  calm  voice. 

"Go  into  the  kitchen,"  she  said  to  the  trembling  maid. 
"Monsieur  Guery  will  open  the  door."  She  used  the  word 
"monsieur"  intentionally.  She  would  have  clapped  it  out 
— at  that  moment — in  the  face  of  the  sea-green  god  him- 
self.    She  was  justly  angry,  Terezia.     She  hated — at  that 


1156  (TORCHLIGHT 

taoment — all  men,  including  Qu^ry.  What  a  trembling' 
jfool  he  looked!  What  was  he  nervous  about?  .  .  .  The 
St.  Innocents,  every  one  of  them,  had  faced  a  far  worse 
fate  without  flinching.  The  old  lady — spiteful  old  cat . — 
hadn't  believed  in  her  courage.  (She'd  never  forgive  her.) 
She,  Terezia,  was  quite  equal  to  her  duty. 

Clarisse  fled  howling  away.  Terezia  walked  up  to 
young  Guery  and  tapped  him  smartly  on  his  shoulder. 

"If  they  want  me,  I'm  in  the  gcdorh." 

"Terezia !" 

"Be  a  man,  darling.  It  is  rather  thrilling,  you  know. 
1  do  hope  they'll  give  me  time  to  change  my  dress." 

While  he  was  talking  outside,  in  the  tiny  hall — it  was 
quite  a  small  flat  of  three  rooms — Terezia  kept  smiling 
to  herself.  Poor  dear  boy,  of  course  he  would  say  the 
!wrong  thing.  Men  generally  do  .  .  .  stupid  creatures! 
JSVhat  was  the  good  of  talking.? 

With  languid  grace  Terezia  walked  across  to  the  sit- 
ting-room. All  the  candles  were  lit  as  if  for  a  party,  and 
the  fire  was  burning  brightly.  What  a  reception !  Who 
IWere  they?  Rough  men?  She  heard  two  voices,  and 
Guery's  eager,  angry  expostulation. 

"He  talks  too  much,"  thought  Terezia  regretfully. 
"^Far  too  much." 

',  She  leaned  her  right  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece  and 
studied  her  face  in  the  mirror.  Her  hair  was  growing 
beautifully — so  thick,  and  such  a  good  color  ...  in  a 
year  or  two  it  would  probably  reach  her  waist. 

She  laughed  gently.  She  felt  sorry  for  her  pretty 
golden  hair.     What  a  shame!  •  ^  • 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

AT  this  exciting  moment — we  hope  that  you  are  feeling 
as  concerned  for  Terezia's  golden  curls  as  she  does 
herself,  they  were  neatly  knotted  at  the  base  of  her  throat 
by  a  filigree  gold  clasp,  which  Tallien  had  given  her  (Bah! 
there's  something  revolting  in  the  fact — from  what  dead 
woman  had  he  plucked  it?) — we  are  obliged,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  the  story,  to  introduce  a  new  character.  His  was 
one  of  the  voices  Terezia  had  heard  outside  the  door,  and 
in  spite  of  his  rude  words  he  struck  her  as  worth  listening 
to.  She  had  actually  left  off  admiring  herself  in  Madame 
St.  Innocent's  charming  mirror,  and  came  across  the 
pretty  room — quite  charmingly  pretty  in  the  firelight 
and  candle-light — to  listen  by  the  door,  the  better  to  hear 
what  he  was  saying. 

The  owner  of  the  other  voice  merely  annoyed  her.  He 
spoke  in  a  bawling,  loud,  drunken  key — deep  and  gruff 
at  that,  like  a  cavern  full  of  smoke  and  belching  fire.  She 
knew  that  voice.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  people.  She 
had  heard  it  often  at  Bordeaux.  She  had  hoped  that  it 
had  ceased  to  exist  in  Paris. 

The  gruff  voice  bawled  on  its  top  note,  the  interesting 
voice  insisted,  young  Guery's  stream  of  words  was  truly 
amazing.     The  lady  stamped  her  foot. 

When  young  M.  Guery  came  in,  his  face  was  flushed, 
his  address  one  wild  preamble  which  presently  elucidated 
itself  into  the  disagreeable  fact  that  Terezia  must  consider 
herself  (temporarily)  under  the  protection  of  the  Bureau 
of  Public  Safety.  Robespierre  had  sent  a  couple  of  picked 
men  to  take  care  of  her. 

"Send  them  away  at  once,"  she  said. 

Young  Guery,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  frantic 

257 


258  TORCHLIGHT 

gestures,  informed  her  the  men  would  not  budge.  They 
intended  to  remain  all  night  on  the  premises.  God  knows 
he  was  wiUing  to  help  her ;  his  dagger  was  at  her  disposal. 
Youno-  Guery  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  an  imaginary 
pool  of  blood,  his  own,  spilled  in  the  ardor  of  fight  and 
for  the  glory  of  love. 

Terezia  pooh-poohed  his  vision,  dismissing  it  as  she 
would  have  dismissed  the  insistence  of  little  Georges,  eager 
for  a  fair}^  story  when  his  darling  mamma  was  otherwise 
preoccupied.  Little  Georges  would  have  had  a  smack 
somewhere  or  other  on  his  diminutive  person.  Young 
Guery,  thanks  to  his  superior  inches,  had  to  be  treated 
in  another  fashion.     She  was  sick  to  death  of  him. 

Terezia,  in  her  turn,  standing  under  the  lighted  chan- 
delier, regardless  of  guttering  wax — there  was  a  devil's 
draught  somewhere — shrugged  her  splendid  shoulders,  and, 
not  deigning  the  youth  a  glance,  she  passed  outside.  He 
heard  her  presently,  in  her  clear,  self-possessed,  truly 
agreeable  voice,  ask  the  citizens  to  give  themselves  the 
trouble  of  entering  the  salon,  where  she  would  be  entirely 
at  their  disposal. 

Guery  rushed  into  speech. 

"Darling,"  he  babbled  through  the  doorway,  "they 
aren't  fit  to  speak  to  you.  They  are  either  drunk  or  mad 
— probably  both.  Their  language  is  outrageous.  Their 
demands  are  gross!  .  .  .  Darling!  Darling!"  In  fever- 
ish anxiety  he  caught  at  the  tail  of  her  delicate  train, 
whisking  softly  through  the  half-closed  door.  He  had  a 
wild  idea  of  holding  on  to  the  shimmering  stuff  and  by 
brutal  violence  enforcing  her  retreat. 

He  did  not  know  his  lady.  Terezia,  if  realizing  his 
attempt,  was  quite  capable  of  leaving  him  the  undisputed 
possession  of  her  dress.  She  would  have  enjoyed  slipping 
out  of  her  gown  and  imagining  his  tongue-tied  surprise 
at  his  booty.  When  is  woman  coerced  by  brutal  force? 
You  can  lead  her  by  love,  you  can  guide  her  by  gentleness, 
you  can  keep  her  by  wit,  but  when  you  come  to  blows, 
it  is  like  beating  a  cloud — waste,  sheer  waste  of  strength. 


TERROR  259 

Presently  she  returned  majestically  into  the  cheerful 
sitting-room,  followed  by  her  two  warders.  One  was  he 
of  the  interesting  voice,  but  at  the  present  moment  not 
much  to  look  at — a  red-skinned,  red-haired,  ugly  fellow, 
and  in  very  slovenly  dress.  Yet  his  clothes  were  clean 
enough.  In  fact  this  M.  Joseph  was  surprisingly  clean 
for  a  jailer  from  Les  Carmes — the  dirtiest  prison  in 
Paris.  His  companion  was  a  gigantic,  red-eyed,  thick- 
lipped  fellow  with  a  mass  of  fair  tousled  hair  thatching 
his  flattened  skull.  His  greasy  coat,  straining  over  his 
broad  thighs  and  broader  shoulders,  gaped  open  on  a  dirty 
tricolor  tie  and  a  waistcoat  of  canary-yellow  satin.  He 
had  a  trick  of  holding  on  to  his  coat  with  a  pair  of  enor- 
mous fists  with  mutilated  finger-nails  ingrained  with  all 
manner  of  dirt. 

Guery  stared  with  unconcealed  hatred  at  "the  scoun- 
drel" as  he  entered  the  room  busily  engaged  in  munching 
a  huge  crust  of  bread  and  cheese.  It  was  the  finishing 
touch  to  his  offcnsiveness. 

The  young  man  offered  Terezia  a  seat,  at  the  same 
time  warning  the  men  to  keep  their  proper  distance. 

*'0h,  darling,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  treating  them  as 
they  deserve.    Why  speak  to  such  wretches  ?    Let  me " 

"I  like  to,"  said  Terezia,  gazing  pensively  into  the  fire. 
"Who  can  escape  the  finger  of  destiny?" 

Her  calmness  dumfounded  Guery.  What  had  destiny 
to  do  with  damnable  insolence? 

The  giant  smiled,  eying  the  chandelier  and  the  lady 
with  impartial  flattery. 

"Supper  is  never  so  cheap  as  when  you  get  it  free,"  he 
mumbled  between  two  great  mouthfuls.  "Say  what  you 
will,  Joseph,  we  are  in  luck's  way.  She  might  have  been 
forty,  toothless,  vixenish,  a  hell  of  a  trouble — kicking, 
screaming  and  no  grace  about  the  business ;  cold  rooms, 
no  fires,  no  candles,  no  wine" — (a  wink  through  the  open 
door  of  the  dining-room  at  the  inviting  supper-table). 
"A  patriot  must  do  his  duty  and  take  his  pleasures  as  they 
come,"     He  sighed.     "I  tell  you  Joseph,  my  man" — a 


260  TOKCHLIGHT 

heavy  slap  on  his  colleague's  back — "we  have  struck  oil. 
She  is  a  dear,  and  as  pretty  as  the  tulips  in  my  mother's 
garden  when  the  sun  slants  over  the  fields.  By  Lucifer, 
Joseph,  say  your  prayers  and  keep  your  eyes  on  the 
young  gentleman.  I'll  take  care  of  the  lady.  What  is 
your  name,  precious?  It  will  be  precious  to  me  if  it's 
Sarah  or  Araminta  or  plain  Mary." 

"You  are  very  drunk,"  said  Terezia. 

"No,  citoyenne,  I  assure  you  you  haven't  an  idea  how  I 
look  when  I  am  very  drunk.  Joseph  will  explain.  Joseph 
drinks  only  cow's  milk.  Gin  upsets  his  digestion  for 
weeks.  He  had  a  taste  just  now — a  most  unfortunate 
mistake.  He  is  naturally  a  jolly  good  fellow.  Here, 
Joseph,  speak  up !  Tune  up  the  tune  you  sang  on  Michael- 
mas Eve  which  drove  all  the  geese  into  the  cauldron, 
spluttering  and  squirting  until  they  simmered  in  rich  thick 
gravy.  You  spoon'd  it,  son !  You  spoon'd  it !  No  lies ! 
The  lady  won't  stand  lies.  Out  on  you,  fellow ;  show  your 
tongue  even  if  you  can't  use  it.  He  has  a  bashful  soul, 
as  beautiful  as  your  floor,  my  darling.  I  could  dance 
and  eat  and  admire  from  now  to  Doomsday,  It  is  dam- 
nably close  to  Doomsday.  Darling,  are  you  there? — poor, 
pretty  dear,  a  shame  to  cut  off  its  little  head!  I'd  save 
it  with  pleasure  for  a  kiss,  only  Joseph  would  be  sure  to 
find  his  tongue  and  give  me  away.  Or  he'd  write.  He  is 
great  on  writing.  His  writing  would  astonish  you,  my 
good  sir" — with  a  grave  bow  to  Guery. 

"Hist,"  said  Joseph,  pulling  his  confrere's  straining 
jacket.     "Be  sensible." 

"Fool!     How  can  sense  keep  pace  with  the  times?" 

Terezia  laughed.  Mr.  Giant  smacked  his  lips  and 
pointed  his  sandwich  at  Guery.  "Be  young,  sir,  be  your- 
self, sir,  be  a  happy  boy,  sir,  and  not  a  poor  copy  of  a 
stone  image.  There  now,  the  lady  is  leaning  her  head 
against  his  hand.  Kneel  at  her  feet,  look  up  at  her  face — • 
a  miracle  of  whiteness — what  the  aristocrats  waste  in 
soap  would  keep  us  in  cheese  for  a  month.     My  friend 


TERROR  261 

here,  who  is  a  handy  artist  and  uncommon  quiet  at  his 
pencil,  will  sketch  the  group  for  love  and  a  louis." 

"It  is  intolerable,"  muttered  Guerj,  shivering  under  this 
direct  attack. 

Terezia  smiled  again.  "It  is  rather  amusing.  I  won- 
der if  the  little  man  is  also  drunk.  Here,  ask  the  giant's 
name." 

"Chatterbox,  at  your  service,"  replied  the  big  man,  at 
once.  "I  change  my  name  to  suit  my  argument.  When 
I  am  dismal  I  am  Mr.  Dignity.  When  betwixt  and  be- 
tween, I  am  nothing."  He  swallowed  the  last  crumbs  of 
his  supper  and  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  blowing  Terezia  a  kiss  at  the  same  time.  "Sorry, 
Joseph,  my  friend,  it  is  all  gone.  Only  my  words  left. 
You  are  kindly  welcome  to  them.  I  never  eat  my  own 
words,  for  fear  of  indigestion.  A  good  digestion  invites 
dreamless  slumber." 

He  glanced  around  the  room,  selected  a  rug,  rolled  it 
up  into  a  bundle  and  lay  down  on  the  floor  vnth.  his  head 
on  the  improvised  pillow.  "I  thank  you,  ma'am.  Take 
care  of  Joseph.  He  is  a  dear  little  creature."  He  gave 
a  pull  to  his  coat.  "A  middling  blanket,"  he  said.  He 
kicked  his  enormous  legs  in  the  air  and  flung  off  his  muddy 
jack-boots.  They  fell  with  a  thud  on  the  centre  of  the 
floor.  The  chandelier  trembled — a  faint  tinkle  of  shiver- 
ing crystal  drops.  The  little  ormolu  clock  chimed  eleven 
musical  strokes.  A  squall  of  wind  rattled  the  tall  windows, 
accompanied  by  the  patter  of  steady  rain. 

Clarisse — very  much  subdued — crept  out  of  her  pantry 
and  into  the  dining-room,  and  began  removing  the  dishes 
from  the  supper-table. 

Joseph  glanced  at  his  companion  sprawling  on  the 
floor,  feigning  sleep  or  fast  asleep.  Giving  the  giant  a 
wide  berth,  he  sauntered  across  the  room  and  studied  a 
picture  hanging  on  the  wall — a  charming  model  of  youth, 
by  Watteau.  Then  he  turned  to  Terezia.  "What  a 
dainty  touch  he  had,"  he  said,  softly. 

A  spluttering  snore  answered  him  from  the  floor.     The 


262  TORCHLIGHT 

giant  turned  over,  lay  flat  on  his  back,  hunching  his  feef 
under  his  knees,  red  hands  clasped  on  broad  chest.  His 
thick  gray  socks  were  full  of  holes. 

Terezia,  from  the  depths  of  her  arm-chair,  without  look- 
ing at  Joseph,  remarked  that  she  wondered  Robespierre 
kept  such  ragged  creatures  in  his  service.  "Surely  the 
pay  attached  to  the  guardians  of  Public  Safety  ought  to 
attract  a  superior  class  of  men?"  she  said. 

"There  is  only  one  class,  citoyerme,"  answered  the 
smaller  man,  bending  over  the  fire  and  warming  his  hands. 

Terezia  laughed  derisively.  "God  forgive  your  boast- 
ing!" she  cried.  "As  if  France  was  only  peopled  by 
drunkards  and  vagabonds !"  she  glanced  again  at  the  man 
on  the  floor,  shuddering.  "Bah!  What  a  spectacle!  Is 
he  always  drunk.''" 

"Not  always.     He  is  pleasanter  drunk." 

"We  are  fortunate," 

"Very  fortunate." 

She  turned  suddenly  and  looked  at  the  man. 

"What  made  you  come  to  this?"  she  asked. 

"One  thing  and  another.  The  course  of  our  lives  is 
seldom  shaped  by  a  single  circumstance." 

"Poor  man  ...  sit  down." 

"Thank  you,  dtoyemie,  with  your  permission  I  prefer 
to  stand." 

"I'm  your  prisoner,"  sighed  Terezia. 

Joseph  looked  at  young  Guery,  loaning  gloomily 
against  a  mahogany  pole-screen  set  with  a  piece  of  tapes- 
try worked  in  glowing  colors — probably  the  cliej  d'cewvre 
of  Madame  St.  Innocent's  happy  moments. 

By  mechanically  raising  and  sinking  the  little  panel, 
young  Guery  was  doing  his  bounden  best  to  break  the 
screen.  Poor  boy,  his  fingers  were  itching  for  employ- 
ment. 

"Leave  that  alone!"  said  Terezia  sharply. 
"Darling " 

Darling  frowned  and  turned  her  back  on  mon  cceur. 
"Break  it  if  it  pleases  you,"  she  said  indifferently. 


TERROR  263 

Joseph  swept  the  hearth ;  he  did  it  very  neatly.  Terezia 
looked  at  him  curiously.  His  profile  was  astonishingly 
fine.     He  had  good  features,  and,  yes,  he  wore  a  wig! 

Looking  up,  he  met  the  lady's  curious  glance.  His 
eyes  were  luminously  clear — beautiful  gray  eyes,  almond- 
shaped  with  dark  lashes.  He  might  have  been  thirty  or 
thereabouts.  His  eyes  (at  that  moment)  gave  you  the 
impression  of  integrity  and  a  welter  of  deep  thoughts, 
principally  of  a  grave  and  scholarly  nature. 

The  giant's  labored  breathing  seemed  to  fill  the  little 
room  to  its  uttermost. 

"Poor  creature !  Probably  you  have  seen  better  days," 
she  remarked. 

Her  kind  words  made  Joseph  blink. 

*'Madam,"  he  whispered,  "I  am  here  to  help  you." 

In  her  astonishment  she  half  rose  from  her  seat.  Guery 
let  go  the  screen  and  touched  his  rapier.  A  candle  gut- 
tered in  its  socket. 

At  that  moment  the  giant,  with  his  eyes  closed,  his  legs 
outstretched,  his  fists  clasped  across  his  mighty  chest, 
started  very  adroitly  to  roll  himself  sideways  across  the 
parquet  floor.  He  evaded  his  boots  with  a  nicety  of  calcu- 
lation. 

He  did  not  stop  rolling  until  his  tousled  head  lay  within 
a  yard  of  the  lady's  chair,  well  within  the  circle  of  the 
leaping  firelight. 

"Go  to  sleep,  Mr.  Dignity,"  he  said,  very  solemnly. 
"Go  to  sleep  and  keep  your  ears  open.  Joseph  is  always 
worth  listening  to.  .  .  .  She's  a  pet  .  .  .  the  warmth 
of  the  fire  is  delicious.  .  .  .  Go  to  sleep,  Mr.  Dignity, 
and  sleep  long.  It  is  one  of  your  distressing  habits  to 
wake  up  sober." 

Joseph  touched  his  companion  with  his  foot. 

"You  are  a  clumsy  brute,"  he  said. 

"Not  a  patch  on  you,  my  friend.  .  .  .  Keep  her 
amused." 

Terezia  accepted  defeat  with  her  habitual  good  humor. 


264!  TORCHLIGHT 

She  turned  to  Guerj,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  knew  he  was 
only  trying  to  deceive  us." 

She  twisted  her  chair  a  fraction  of  an  inch  further 
away  from  the  drunkard,  and  settled  herself  comfortably. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  with  a  weary  expression  on  her 
face.     Guery  regarded  her  apprehensively. 

"Dearest,"  he  implored,  "you  are  looking  very  tired. 
Please  go  to  bed." 

Terezia  shook  her  head,  without  looking  up. 

Guery  sighed  (wise  boy),  said  no  more,  and  retired  into 
the  shell  of  his  miserable  reflections,  varied  enough,  but 
all  sad. 

The  rain  hurled  itself  in  gusty  squalls  against  the  tall 
French  windows.  A  volume  of  smoke  came  pouring  down 
the  chimney,  as  the  result  of  a  mighty  gust  of  wind.  The 
candles  flickered. 

Terezia  smoothed  her  silk  dress,  and  drew  in  her  ex- 
quisitely-slippered feet  under  her  voluminous  petticoats. 
She  did  not  want  her  new  shoes  spoiled.  She  glanced 
pensively  at  the  charming  clock  standing  on  the  marble 
mantelpiece.  She  decided  that  she  would  sit  up  at  least 
two  hours  longer  before  retiring  to  rest.  Probably  she 
would  succeed  in  tiring  out  her  warders,  and  her  poor, 
faithful  love-sick  Guery.  .  .  .  What  big  eyes  he  had! 
What  had  he  seen  af  life? 

Her  situation  was  not  without  piquancy.  Virtually  she 
was  the  prisoner  of  two  ill-matched  men.  She  was  sure 
that  Joseph  had  seen  better  days,  but  the  man  on  the 
floor  was  merely  beastly. 

Joseph  had  shown  considerable  tact  in  immediately 
dropping  his  offer  of  help.  No  doubt  the  hulking  brute 
at  her  feet  would,  eventually,  under  the  combined  effects  of 
wine  and  the  genial  warmth  of  the  room,  fall  asleep.  .  .   . 

Terezia  pointedly  addressed  Joseph. 

"Citoyen"  she  said  gently,  "be  so  good  as  to  replenish 
the  fire.     I  am  cold." 

Guery  gave  her  a  poignant  and  melancholy  glance. 
Guery  had  been  ruminating  on  her  extraordinary  courage, 


TERROR  265 

in  precarious  situations — and  yet  he  couldn't  quite  ap- 
prove of  her  sang-froid.  Joseph  was  undoubtedly  only  a 
degree  removed  in  beastliness  from  "Mr.  Dignity" — the 
unutterable  swine!  .  .  . 

Citoyen  Joseph,  after  he  had  buUt  up  a  crackling 
blaze,  drew  forward  a  modest  stool,  covered  in  green  silk 
tapestry,  and,  having  obtained  Terezia's  permission,  he 
seated  himself. 

"What  surprises  me,"  he  said,  "is  not  the  change  in 
Paris,  but  the  want  of  curiosity  in  the  town.  I  assure  you 
there  are  many  quarters  quite  untouched  by  tears  and 
Woodshed,  where  united  families,  happily  engaged,  pay  no 
attention  to  ugly  stories  which  they  are  wholly  unable 
to  credit." 

"Have  you  come  across  such  people?" 

"Indeed  I  have,  madam.  There  is  a  dear  old  lady  liv- 
ing at  this  moment  in  the  Rue  de  Lille  who  believes  in  the 
existence  of  monarchy,  and  who  mildly  censures  her  late 
majesty  for  playing  the  dairy-maid,  though  she  thor- 
oughly approves  of  her  domesticity.  She  is  loyalty  itself 
to  King  Louis  XVL,  though  sometimes  I  have  seen  her 
shake  her  head  at  his  good-nature.  Congenial  occupa- 
tion, madam,  blinds  many  of  us  to  the  harshness  of  life. 
My  mother  loves  her  children,  honors  her  king,  and  never 
asks  questions  of  either." 

*'It  sounds  incredible,"  said  Guery. 

"Why  shouldn't  it  be  true?"  said  Terezia. 

Joseph  bowed,  and  stroked  his  cheek  with  a  well-shaped 
hand. 

*'If  so,'*  said  Guery,  "you  must  be  an  accomplished  liar, 
sir." 

Joseph  continued  stroking  his  cheek.  "Of  some  little 
merit,  sir.  I  never  gossip  when  at  home.  Also,  I  have 
very  little  opportunity  for  practice.  Robespierre  keeps 
us  all  pretty  busy.  Citizen,  life  is  interesting,  and  ro- 
mance is  charming." 

"Very,"  said  Guery,  in  a  cynical  tone.  "Do  you  keep 
your  good  mother  shut  up?" 


266  TORCHLIGHT 

"On  the  contrary,  she  is  as  free  as  air.  She  chats  with 
her  neighbors,  and  every  Saturday,  accompanied  by  her 
servant,  she  goes  to  the  Marche  St.  Honore  and  does  her 
weekly  marketing.  She  brings  home  a  basketful  of  pro- 
visions and  a  few  crumbs  of  news " 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Terezia,  "that  is  really  extraordinary. 
How  does  she  account  for  the  news.?" 

"Madam,  I  take  it  God  protects  His  chosen  few.  On 
entering  her  little  house  she  scatters  the  crumbs  to  the 
four  winds  of  heaven.  Then,  very  happily,  she  sets  about 
her  household  duties,  which  are  manifold.  I  can  recom- 
mend her  walnut  cordial  as  an  excellent  drink.  She  spins 
flax,  soft  as  silk,  and  she  mends  her  own  linen.  She  never 
ceases  to  thank  Providence  for  her  lavender-bush,  her 
one  big  tree,  and  her  own  patch  of  blue  sky.  At  the  pres- 
ent moment  my  mother  is  the  happiest  woman  in  Paris." 

"Poor  lady,"  said  Guery,  with  a  dreary  smile  at  the 
ceiling.     "How  does  she  account  for  her  son.''" 

"I  thank  you,  citizen,  kindly.  By  the  way,  she  has  two, 
and  she  is  proud  of  them  both.  I  myself  am  a  prosperous 
man — the  wicked  flourish  as  the  bay-tree — and  my  brother, 
a  soldier,  has  lately  been  distinguishing  himself  at  Toulon 
and  writes  home  enthusiastic  praise  of  his  commanding 
officer.  General  Bonaparte." 

Terezia  smiled. 

"I  want  to  meet  that  man,"  she  said,  tapping  her  finger 
on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

Joseph  further  informed  the  company  that  his  mother 
was  in  the  habit  of  reading  aloud  his  brother's  letters 
from  the  front,  when  her  coffee  was  brewing  and  her  saf- 
fron bread  baking. 

Terezia  frowned.  She  was  getting  weary  of  listening 
to  the  idiocyncrasies  of  this  remarkable  citoyenne  of 
Paris.  She  ya^vned,  flashing  jeweled  fingers  over  her 
mouth,  and  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Very  nice,"  she  said,  gently  polishing  a  rosy  thumb- 
nail. "Tell  me  more  of  this  General  Bonaparte.  I  hear 
he  goes  about  dressed  worse  than  a  common  soldier.    They 


TERROR  267 

also  tell  me  that  this  wonderful  young  man  hardly  ever 
sleeps ;  occasionally  he'll  talk  volubly ;  at  other  times  he'll 
conveniently  lose  his  tongue — but  never  under  any  circum- 
stances his  scowl."  She  put  her  finger  in  her  mouth, 
and  looked  wise  as  a  precocious  infant  sure  of  making  an 
effect.  ( She  was  convinced  she'd  make  a  great  impression 
on  a  youthful  general  of  twenty-four.) 

"All  honor  to  him,"  said  Joseph,  politely.  "But  for 
Bonaparte  we  would  certainly  have  lost  Toulon." 

"People  are  very  apt  to  turn  a  fortunate  circumstance 
into  a  heroic  action,"  said  Guery.  "Time  will  prove 
his  mettle." 

"Exactly,"  agreed  Terezia.  "I  for  one  don't  believe 
in  the  English.  Who  knows  if,  even  without  this  estimable 
Corsican's  assistance,  we  wouldn't  have  beaten  them  just 
as  easily?" 

Mr.  Dignity  with  disconcerting  suddenness  sat  up  and 
nodded  his  immense  head.  "There  is  a  clever  headpiece 
for  you,"  said  he,  addressing  the  tips  of  Guery's  boots. 
"Cock-a-doodle-doo,  what  a  dry  company !  Good-night 
to  everyone,  dry  or  wet.  To-morrow  has  arrived,  and 
Yesterday  has  turned  the  corner.  .  .  .  Joseph,  my  man, 
God  bless  you.  God  bless  your  mother.  God  bless  every- 
one." He  blinked  at  Guery.  "Young  man,  you're  im- 
proving. In  ten  years  you  will  be  formidable — to  the 
ladies.  I  know  one,  a  widow  lately,  a  ^guillotine'  widow. 
She  is  in  prison,  and  her  name  is  Josephine  Beau-har- 
nais."  (He  docked  off  the  syllables  on  his  huge  fingers.) 
.   .   .  "God  bless   her.   .   .   .  God  bless   everyone.   .  .   ." 

His  voice  dropped  into  unintelligible  mutterings  as  his 
head  bumped  on  the  fender-stool.  "Sleep  is  more  blessed 
than  kisses,"  he  said.     "Sleep,  I  love  you !" 

He  settled  himself,  like  a  corkscrew,  closed  his  eyes,  and 
started  snoring  at  once. 

Terezia  gave  him  a  contemptuous  glance.  A  drunkard 
is  everybody's  friend,  but  a  sober  man  makes  his  choice 
of  the  field.  She  smiled,  well  satisfied.  .  .  .  She  had  great 
hopes  of  the  future.     Even  this  Bonaparte,  whom  every- 


268  TORCHLIGHT 

one  was  crying  up,  was  not  invulnerable.  How  could  a 
hot-blooded  Corsican  keep  a  cool  front  in  face  of  a  per- 
fect woman?  She  laughed  aloud  at  such  a  ridiculous  idea. 
.  .  .  Yes,  she  would  like  to  meet  him. 

She  blew  a  kiss  through  her  pursed  lips  at  a  phantom. 

Guery  got  up  and  whispered  in  her  ear.  "Go  to  bed, 
darling " 

Terezia  shrugged  her  shoulders,  shook  her  head,  tapped 
her  heels,  fluttered  her  eyelids,  and  laughed  deUciously,  all 
in  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"Sit  down,  TTton  coeur,"  she  recommended  him.  "Citoyen 
Joseph,  give  me  all  your  attention  and  I'll  tell  you  an 
amusing  story." 

Joseph  bowed.  "I  am  altogether  your  debtor,"  he  said. 
"One  day,  madam,  I  hope  to  repay  you." 

She  glanced  at  the  beast — hugely  enjoying  her  secret 
understanding  "with  the  little  man  who  wore  a  wig.  Her 
heart  beat  a  trifle  faster.  Terror  had  its  fascinations ! 
Let  them  send  her  to  prison — she'd  wriggle  out  somehow! 
Her  quick  mind  leaped  ahead  and  fervently  cursed  her 
enemy,  Robespierre — less  fervently  her  lover,  Tallien 
.  .   .  Tallien  might  still  be  of  some  use  to  her. 

"I  knew  Madame  de  Beauharnais  in  the  old  days,"  she 
said.  "In  the  dear  old  days !"  (She  nodded  at  Joseph  as 
much  as  to  say,  "Bring  them  back  again,  my  friend.") 
*'Once  she  asked  me  to  dinner  in  an  informal  fashion.  'I 
dine  at  three,'  she  said.  'Come  early.'  I  arrived  very 
punctually  and  was  shown  into  an  untidy  sitting-room, 
A  maid  was  on  her  knees  trying  to  light  a  damp  fire; 
another,  at  my  entrance,  picked  up  armfuls  of  soiled  table 
linen  from  the  centre  of  the  floor.  I  shivered,  and  sat 
down  on  a  little  sofa  beside  a  little  table  on  which  stood 
a  vase  of  faded  violets,  and  a  sheaf  of  old  dance-pro- 
grams. I  studied  the  wall-paper  opposite  me  for  half- 
an-hour,  waiting  for  the  mistress  of  the  house  to  appear. 
Then  I  rang  the  bell.  *Serve  dinner,'  I  said  to  the  fright- 
ened manservant,  who,  overawed  by  my  grand  air,  obeyed. 
By  four  o'clock  I  had  finished  a  fairly  good  meal.     By 


TERROR  269 

five  o'clock,  when  I  was  seated  by  the  sitting-room  fire, 
now  burning  up  brightly,  reading  a  witty  play,  Madame 
de  Beauharnais  appears,  buttoning  her  bracelets,  and 
asking,  'Am  I  late,  darling?'  'No,  madame,'  said  I,  'not 
at  all.'  She  swayed  up  to  me  and  kissed  the  nape  of  my 
neck.  *Allow  me,  madame,'  she  said,  'to  congratulate  you 
on  an  unexpected  dimple.'  'On  the  contrary,  madame,'  I 
continued,  'you  are  astonishingly  early — for  supper,  hieTtr 
entendu.'  I  rose  to  go.  She  was  not  at  all  put  out.  She 
swept  me  a  ravishing  curtsy.  'Madame,'  she  said,  extend- 
ing her  hand,  'I  thank  you  for  a  well-deserved  rebuke.  I 
hope  you  didn't  eat  up  all  the  mayonnaise?'  In  the  end 
we  embraced  each  other,  and  arranged  to  meet  at  the  play 
on  the  following  evening.  Madame  de  Beauharnais  ar- 
rived at  the  curtain  of  the  third  act,  with  her  inevitable 
query,  'Am  I  late,  darling?'  She  will  certainly  put  Sam- 
son in  a  fever  of  impatience,  and  then  kiss  the  scaffold 
and  smile  at  the  first  man  she  happens  to  see  in  the  crowd." 

Terezia  turned  to  Guery.  "Have  you  met  her?"  she 
asked. 

"No,"  answered  Guery,  without  enthusiasm. 

"She  is  quite  good-looking,  though  of  course  she  is  not 
at  all  young,  has  two  big  children,  and  her  teeth  are 
rotten." 

"Doesn't  sound  attractive,"  said  Guery.  (If  Terezia 
had  described  Venus  he  would  have  said  just  the  same.) 

"I  remember  that  evening  as  if  it  were  yesterday,"  she 
sighed.  "Garat  was  singing.  The  poor  dear  queen  ad- 
mired his  voice  immensely.  She  practically  made  him. 
He  was  quite  the  fashion  a  year  or  two  ago.  Where  is  he 
now?" 

"In  Lyons,"  answered  Joseph. 

"In  prison?" 

Joseph  bowed. 

Terezia's  eyes  dilated. 

"How  I  hate  you  all !"  she  said.  "Nothing  is  too  small 
for  you  and  nothing  too  great;  and  you  think  you'll 
escape  the  penalty  of  your  crimes?" 


270  TORCHLIGHT 

"No,  madame.  Robespierre  will  meet  his  fate  very  soon, 
if  I  am  not  much  mistaken." 

"How?     Time  presses,  sir." 

Joseph  glanced  at  the  man  on  the  floor.  Mr.  Dignity's 
mouth  was  wide  open.  He  had  the  slack  appearajice  of  a 
man  intent  on  his  dreams. 

"Robespierre  is  the  most  unpopular  man  in  France," 
said  Joseph  softly,  "and  the  most  feared." 

"I  am  confident  of  the  future,"  said  Terezia,  serenely. 
*'FaiIing  anyone  else,  Camille  Desmoulins  will  help  me. 
He  once  did  me  a  very  kind  action.     He  shall  repeat  it." 

Impetuously  she  rose  from  her  seat,  and  crossing  over 
to  Joseph,  who  had  risen  at  her  approach,  she  whispered 
in  his  ear.  "Lacking  men,  women  must  act.  Citizen,  I'll 
let  Desmoulins  have  the  option  of  immortality.  If  he 
refuses,  I'll  step  in." 

"Camille  Desmoulins  was  guillotined  last  Thursday 
week,  on  April  the  fifth." 

Terezia  stifled  a  sharp  cry. 

"The  dear  good  man !"  she  breathed.  "And  his  wife 
loved  him." 

Joseph  nodded.   "Danton  died  with  him — very  bravely." 

"And  no  one  spoke.?     No  one  objected.?" 

"I  tell  you,  madam — the  knife  has  clogged  the  brains  of 
the  people.  They  are  satiated,  but  far  from  satisfied. 
It  is  a  fantastic  display  of  power."  Joseph  leaned  over 
the  sleeping  man's  gigantic  frame.  "Robespierre  goes 
in  terror  of  his  life.  He  has  grown  to  look  a  shadow  of 
^his  former  self." 

"Ugh!"  she  said.  "To  think  that  he,  and  such  as  he, 
hold  up  France  and  defy  God!" 

"Terezia  darling,"  interrupted  Guery,  "please  go  to 
bed.  You  are  looking  so  feverish.  All  this  excitement 
is  bad  for  you " 

Terezia  took  hold  of  the  boy's  hot  hand.  "Poor  dear," 
she  said,  "how  obstinate  we  are!  Very  well,  if  you  insist 
on  it  I  will  leave  you  to  yourselves.  Good  night,  citizens. 
I'll  see  you  in  the  morning." 


TERROR  271 

She  moved  across  the  room.  In  passing  a  mirror  she 
glanced  at  herself.  "No  one  would  imagine  from  my  ap- 
pearance that  I  am  suffering  agony,"  she  observed  com- 
placently.    "It  is  a  great  advantage,  citizens.'* 

"An  unmitigated  blessing,  ma'am,'*  said  Joseph,  com- 
ing up  to  her.  "Are  you  aware  that  Citizen  Tallien  is  in 
Paris?     Hush,  I  pray  you.     We  must  not  be  overheard." 

"Tallien !"  breathed  Terezia.  "Impossible  !  I  left  him 
at  Bordeaux.     He  can't  be  here  unless  he's  flown." 

"He  made  a  forced  journey,  riding  at  express  speed." 

"Why?" 

"He  has  been  summoned  to  report  himself  at  head- 
quarters." 

"Is  it  a  fact?" 

"I  saw  him  myself  this  afternoon  at  Robespierre's  house." 

*'Thank  you,"  said  Terezia  quietly.  "It  makes  the 
situation  all  the  more  interesting.  Will  love  or  greed  or 
terror  win?  Unfortunately,  Tallien  has  his  limitations. 
I'll  be  imprisoned  as  sure  as  death.  Citizens,  I  am  not 
afraid  of  ^a  Tallien !  Does  the  woman  exist  who  is  fright- 
ened of  her  lover?" 

Terezia  smiled  at  her  two  friends.  "Do  me  a  favor," 
she  said.  "Get  rid  of  that  thing" — she  pointed  a  finger 
at  the  slumbering  man — "before  I  get  up  to-morrow,  or 
he'll  certainly  spoil  my  appetite  for  breakfast." 

Joseph's  answer  was  to  signal  to  Guery.  Between  them 
they  carried  the  giant  out  of  the  salon,  and  deposited  him 
in  the  little  hall  outside.  They  let  him  drop  like  a  stone 
on  the  floor.     He  never  woke. 

Behind  her  closed  door,  they  could  hear  Terezia  laugh- 
ing to  herself. 

Joseph  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  drew  out  of  his  pocket 
a  folded  document,  which  he  handed  to  Citizen  Guery.  It 
was  an  order  of  arrest  for  the  CItoyenne  Terezia  Carrabus 
— de  la  main  de  Robespierre. 

Scrawled  beneath  his  signature  he  had  added  these 
words :  "II  faut  reunir  toutes  les  pieces  relatives  a  la 
Carrabus." 


CHAPTER    XXXVn 

SET  in  the  immense  roll  of  annotated  history,  the  French 
Revolution — with  a  paltry  hundred  years  or  so  inter- 
Tening  between  then  and  now — seems  incredibly  close  to 
us.  At  times  we  may  well  fear  that  it  will  repeat  itself, 
on  a  vastly  larger  scale,  but,  wisely,  we  dismiss  such  ideas 
as  unwelcome  dreams. 

It  was  a  mad,  bad  world  in  this  spring  of  1794.  Yet 
even  then  town  sparrows  could  chirp,  children  play,  men 
and  women  work,  dig,  bake  and  mend — all  for  that  im- 
portant crumb  of  existence  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  man. 
The  Terror  might  have  paralyzed  France — left  her  dod- 
dering like  a  lame  idiot — except  for  this  merciful  necessity 
of  carrying  on.  Eventually,  as  we  know,  horror  did  pass 
away,  like  a  heavy  cloud,  leaving  the  morning  brilliantly 
fair. 

The  day  following  Terezia's  arrival  in  Paris  redeemed 
the  character  of  wayward  April.  The  storm  of  the  previ- 
ous night  had  given  place  to  brilliant  sunshine,  which 
shone  over  the  city  in  a  perfect  halo  of  gold ;  it  glistened 
on  roofs  still  rain-wet,  and  on  the  tender  leafage  of  bud- 
ding trees ;  it  flecked  sanded  courtyards  with  little  discs 
of  light,  and  lit  upon  unexpected  pools  of  water ;  it  effaced 
the  smell  of  sewage  gas,  and  other  rank  unpleasantness, 
bringing  to  the  fore  the  cleanly  odor  of  damp  earth  and 
the  scent  of  dewy,  freshly-gathered  flowers. 

Upon  the  soft  blue  sky,  tiny  feathery  clouds  drifted 
before  a  gentle  breeze.  It  was  difficult  to  associate  this 
rejuvenated  morning  with  death — sudden  death,  premedi- 
tated, applauded,  and  of  alarming  regularity.  Truth  to 
tell,  satiety  had  taken  the  sharp  edge  off  the  bloody  appe- 
tites of  vengeful  citizens.  To  make  matters  worse,  class 
was  no  longer  respected.     Any  individual,  no  matter  how 

272 


TERROR  273 

humble  his  birth,  was  open  to  suspicion!  Men  of  one 
breed  turned  and  denounced  each  other.  It  was  an  un- 
easy time.  Every  true  patriot  (if  he  valued  his  life)  lived 
in  the  open,  wilhngly  facing  the  blazing  light  of  publicity, 
trumpeting  his  innocence  into  the  ears  of  the  sweltering 
crowd,  thankful  if,  by  a  miracle,  he  escaped  condemnation. 

The  leaders — scenting  the  temper  of  the  populace — 
wrangled  in  open  court;  howled  and  shrieked  and  spat 
at  each  other  in  a  frenzy  of  patriotism  which  but  poorly 
veiled  each  man's  secret  fear.  Out  in  the  great  squares, 
under  April  skies.  La  Guillotine  did  her  work,  coldly  in- 
different to  everyone. 

Behind  barred  door  and  shut  windows,  where  two  or 
three  were  gathered  together,  speculation  ran  rife,  and 
tongues  wagged  fast  but  to  no  purpose.  No  one  seemed 
able  to  cope  with  the  situation — all  the  more  terrible  for 
the  balmy  air  of  spring  and  the  dew-wet  violets,  to  be 
bought  (cheaply)  in  the  flower  markets  of  Paris. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Robespierre  had 
finished  his  dressing  and  stood  by  his  bedroom  window. 
He  was  not  a  pretty  sight.  His  eyes  were  fishy,  and  his 
narrow  hands — rather  well-shaped  and  white — were  hot 
as  coals,  with  an  inner  lining  of  damp  skin.  A  fastidious 
man  might  well  be  excused  some  natural  repugnance  in 
shaking  RobespieiTe's  hand — apart  from  the  sentimental 
significance  they  were  actually  rather  terrible  hands  to 
touch. 

Having  finished  a  finicking  toilette — the  higher  he  rose 
in  office,  the  greater  thought  he  bestowed  on  his  appear- 
ance— Robespierre  sat  down  in  his  favorite  arm-chair,  by 
the  window,  drew  forward  a  little  satin-wood  table — 
shaped  like  a  kidney,  inset  with  a  mosaic  border  of  green 
laurel  leaves — rang  the  table  bell — a  shrill-voiced  piece  of 
silver — ajid  took  up  a  small  yellow-backed  pamplilet.  He 
was  well  acquainted  with  its  contents — a  commendable, 
concise,  clever  httle  treatise  on  social  matters.  His 
brother,  Augustine,  had  sent  him  the  book  from  Avignon, 


27^  TORCHLIGHT 

together  with  a  flattering  report  of  its  young  author,  a 
studious  and  exemplary  artillery  officer,  by  name  Napoleon 
Bonaparte.  The  book  was  called  An  Evening  at  Becuw- 
caire. 

It  very  neatly  voiced  Robespierre's  policy,  without  any 
groveling  servitude  of  spirit.  In  fact,  the  little  book  was 
full  of  a  strange  new  personality,  and  the  style,  though 
rugged,  bore  witness  to  lucidity  and  a  straightforward 
directness  of  manner  which  appealed  to  Maximilien's  sense 
of  fitness.  (There  is  no  devil  on  earth,  or  below,  without 
his  own  little  set  of  weights  and  measures.  Robespierre 
prided  himself  on  the  accuracy  of  his  scales.   •  .   .) 

On  this  twinkling  April-rain-washed  morning,  he  was 
fully  alive  to  his  critical  faculty.  For  some  time  he  had 
noticed  Bonaparte  and  singled  him  out  for  protection. 
In  fact,  thanks  to  his  influence,  the  young  man  had  been 
reinstated  in  the  Army.  He  had  also,  privily,  sent  word 
to  his  brother,  in  Avignon,  to  look  him  up.  He  was  a 
young  man  who  wanted  watching.  His  mathematical 
treatises  had  made  extremely  interesting  reading.  And 
as  to  his  personality — as  yet  undeclared — it  had  filled 
Robespierre  with  anticipation.  A  spice  of  good  luck,  a 
handful  of  kind  friends,  and  that  sallow-faced  stripling 
ought  to  advance  on  his  own  merits.  There,  in  a  nutshell, 
lay  life's  secret.  No  man,  even  if  flung  to  the  front, 
can  stay  there  except  by  his  own  ability.  A  man  has  only 
himself  to  thank  for  what  he  is.  Robespierre  smiled  to 
himself  (a  grim  perfonnance  though  not  lacking  in  kindly 
intention  in  this  instance)  as  he  remembered  this  "valuable 
officer's"  (Augustin's  report  of  1792 — since  amply  justi- 
fied) far  from  reassuring  presence — the  recollection  of 
his  leanness,  his  awkward  gait,  his  untidy  hair,  filled  him 
with  amusement.  And  yet,  when  he  recalled  his  eyes — eyes 
of  mesmeric  depth — he  had  to  allow  that  nothing  about 
him  really  mattered  in  comparison  with  his  undoubted 
talent.  He  was  undeniably  gifted !  "My  friend,"  ex- 
claimed Robespierre  aloud,  laying  down  Bonaparte's  book 
on  the  table,  "if  you  live  you'll  make  history.     There  is 


TERROR  275 

grit  in  jou,  and  you  take  long  views."  (Robespierre 
glanced  contemptuously  towards  the  Place  de  la  Revolu- 
tion, sneering  at  so  tedious  a  proceeding  as  the  guillotine.) 
"What  this  Corsican  soldier  wants,"  he  thought,  "is  war, 
not  murder,  and  sudden  death.  .  .  ."  Robespierre 
yawned.  He  was  getting  a  bit  hazy.  He  swore  at  his 
man.  Why  did  he  not  bring  him  his  breakfast.?  His 
head  was  aching  .   .   .  aching  as  if  it  would  burst. 

His  servant  knocked  on  the  door  and  entered  the  room 
with  a  little  brown  tray  containing  a  cup  of  chocolate, 
a  basin  of  porridge  and  some  jam  puffs. 

He  sipped  his  chocolate,  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back 
of  his  hand,  spat  on  the  floor.  Uncovering  his  porringer 
— a  handsome  blue  Sevres  china  dish  witfi  gilt  handles — • 
he  devoured  his  porridge.  A  thin  thread  of  steam  wan- 
dered past  his  face  up  to  the  low  ceiling,  and  was  lost  in 
the  intricacies  of  damp-rot.  (He  lodged  poorly  with  one 
Duploy,  a  carpenter  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore.)  He  crunched 
his  yellow  teeth  into  his  crisp  fresh  pastries  and  smacked 
his  lips.  To-day  the  tarts  were  filled  with  strawberry 
jam.     Robespierre  loved  strawberry  jam. 

On  the  stroke  of  nine  a  loud  tap  at  the  door  announced 
the  arrival  of  Citoyen  Salicet — his  barber — a  little  wizened 
fellow,  who  always  entered  the  room  at  a  run,  as  if  pro- 
pelled forcibly  from  behind. 

"Good  morning,  citoyen.     A  fine  morning!" 

Robespierre  spat  at  the  exact  centre  of  a  medallion  on 
the  carpet — he  reached  it  by  a  nicety  of  calculation.  Then 
he  shuffled  his  feet. 

"Quite  fine,"  he  agreed.  "Have  you  brought  your  new 
powder.''" 

"I  have  it  with  me,  citoyen.  It  is  as  smooth  as  velvet 
and  as  white  as  snow.     Allow  me." 

The  barber  from  a  cupboard  fetched  a  wrapper  of  none 
too  white  linen  and  enveloped  his  client  in  its  ample  folds. 

"If  the  citoyen  would  give  himself  the  infinite  trouble  of 
crossing  to  the  dressing-table.     The  light  is  better " 

The  barber  rubbed  his  thin  hands  together  and  twinkled 


276  TORCHLIGHT 

his  little  eyes  at  the  great  man.  "The  citoyen,  if  I  may 
be  allowed  to  say  so,  is  looking  the  picture  of  health  this 
morning."  Still  rubbing  his  hands,  he  bowed  deeply.  "All 
Paris  rings  with  the  citoyen'' s  praises.  *Robespierre,  the 
savior  of  France !  Robespierre,  the  man  of  genius !  Robes- 
pierre with  the  heart  of  a  child !  When  he  punishes  it  is 
but  to  reprove  naughtiness.  .  .  .'  Forgive  me,  gossiping 
thus  early  in  the  morning."  Citoyen  Salicet,  with  a  nim- 
ble gesture,  opened  the  little  bag  he  was  carrying  and 
placed  on  the  dressing-table  a  methylated-spirit  stove, 
crimping-irons,  a  large  box  of  powder,  and  a  length  of 
new  black  satin  ribbon. 

"Black  is  so  tender  against  white,"  he  murmured,  pass- 
ing the  ribbon  through  his  hands.  "I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  bringing  this.  The  citoyen  must  tell  me  if  I 
have  done  wrong." 

"I  hate  black !  I  loathe  black !  Azure  blue  is  my  true 
color,  as  you  know.  You  are  a  leprous  fool!  Irritate  me 
again  and  I'll  have  your  carcass  flung  in  the  pit,  without 
a  preliminary  embrace  of  the  savior  of  men." 

*' Citoyen,  dear  good  citoyen — I  was  only — joking," 
stammered  the  unfortunate  man.     "Black  is  hideous  wear. 

Black  would  not  suit  Apollo,  much  less "  he  stopped, 

working  his  mouth  in  a  hideous  imitation  of  a  smile.  .  .  . 
Saints  protect  him!  The  least  little  slip  might  indeed 
send  him  headlong  into  perdition.  It  would  be  like  Robes- 
pierre's humor  to  fling  him  alive  into  a  swarming  pit  of 
mangled  bodies  .  .  .  like  his  humor.  .  .   . 

The  tears  started  in  Salicet's  eyes.  The  beautiful 
morning  seemed  to  him  a  crowning  piece  of  insolence — 
perhaps  this  was  his  last.'' 

Robespierre  cleared  his  throat  noisily.  "Silly  ass,  I 
don't  kill  fleas — especially  useful  fleas.  You  are  the  only 
man  in  Paris  who  has  the  knack  of  dressing  my  head.  Be 
satisfied." 

"I  am  overwhehned  with  honor,"  said  Citoyen  Salicet, 
actually    so    delighted    at    this    affable    statement    that, 


TERROR  27T 

through  his  blanched  lips,  he  whistled  a  popular  air  from 
the  music-halls. 

Robespierre  crossed  to  the  dressing-table,  in  high  good- 
humor.  "Dear,  dear!"  he  said.  "In  this  frightful  pres- 
sure of  business  I  never  have  the  opportunity  of  attending 
places  of  amusement."  (He  carefully  dipped  his  finger 
into  a  pot  of  rouge  and  smoothed  his  lips.)  "Are  they 
playing  to  full  houses.?'* 

"Packed.  Paris  has  never  been  so  gay.  They  have  a 
little  piece  on  now,  at  the  Theatre  Michelet,  which  is  at- 
tracting enormous  audiences.  The  citoyen  must  really 
go  and  see  it.     It  is  rich !  rich !" 

The  barber  as  he  spoke  was  busily  powdering  and  pat- 
ting his  client's  peruke,  and  adjusting  his  thin  locks  into 
a  scheme  of  unprecedented  elegance. 

Robespierre  blinked  at  his  powdery  reflection  in  the 
mirror.  He  was  gratified  that  the  theatres  were  doing 
well.  The  crowds  must  be  kept  amused.  A  bored  crowd 
is  often  troublesome.  Out  of  sheer  weariness  of  spirit, 
good-tempered  people  have  been  known  to  behave  disgrace- 
fully. Tired  out,  they  will  yell  to  no  purpose  except  for 
the  delight  of  bawling.  From  bawling  it  is  but  a  step  to 
rioting  and  fighting.  Robespierre,  out  of  national  funds, 
generously  supported  the  drama.  He  had  even  proposed 
getting  Pierre  Garat  (conceited  coxcomb  that  he  was) 
out  of  prison  to  sing  to  his  admiring  Parisians,  who  were 
all  foolishly  delighted  with  the  Bordelais  singer.  Robes- 
pierre wanted  more  moving  space  for  himself — it  would 
be  a  good  tiling,  surely,  to  get  up  a  counter-attraction 
elsewhere.?*  Danton  and  Camille  Desmoulins  had,  amongst 
others  opposed  his  kindly  thought  in  the  interest  of  the 
public,  but  at  the  time  he  had  waved  aside  the  matter  as  a 
piece  of  triviality  unworthy  of  his  attention.  Later  he 
had  signed  the  death-warrant  of  these  two  men — culpably 
dishonest  because  they  had  voted  against  him,  and  sullied 
the  fame  of  the  Government  with  their  jealousy.  He  had 
also  personally  seen  them  die.  Danton  had  borne  himself 
bravely,  flinging  back  his  great  head,  and,  at  the  very 


278  TORCHLIGHT 

last,  had  glared  at  him  with  contemptuous  pity  (save  the 
mark!).  The  winning  man  is  surely  deserving  of  envy? 
On  that  day  Robespierre  had  felt  more  than  ordinarily 
sure  of  himself.  He  had  taken  a  keen  and  sensitive  pleas- 
ure in  poor  Desmovdins'  unseemly  behavior,  had  egged  him 
on  to  make  a  still  further  exhibition  of  liis  grief.  Camille, 
at  sight  of  his  weeping  wife  and  family — specially  invited 
for  the  occasion — had  mingled  his  tears  with  theirs,  nay, 
he  had  actually  struggled  to  escape  his  sentence !  Paying 
no  attention  to  Danton's  pleading:  "Calm  yourself,  my 
friend,'*  Desmoulins'  voice  had  rung  out  above  the  heads 
of  the  gaping  crowd — a  flattering  concourse  of  absorbed 
spectators :  "O  my  wife,  my  well-beloved,  I  shall  see  you 
no  more!"  .  .  .  Eventually  he  had  quieted  down.  To 
Danton  was  left  the  final  theatrical  speech:  "Samson, 
thou  wilt  show  my  head  to  the  people ;  it  is  worth  showing." 

Robespierre  tore  at  his  dressing-gown.  "Take  it  off," 
he  said.     "I  am  choking!     I  want  air — space — light!" 

Needless  to  say,  the  barber  obsequiously  obej^ed.  Dear, 
dear,  how  changeable  are  great  men,  he  thought,  as,  very 
hurriedly,  he  repacked  his  little  bag.  He  did  not  dare 
speak. 

Robespierre  spat  on  the  floor. 

Someone  gave  a  loud  knock  on  the  door. 

Robespierre  gave -a  quick  jump.  He  bit  his  thumbnail, 
jerked  his  neck  round — a  trick  of  his — and  spoke  over  his 
shoulder:     "Come  in."     His  voice  sounded  thick. 

"Good  morning,  my  dear  friend.  Why,  how  smart  you 
look!  I  thought  I  would  catch  you  early,  before  you 
went  out.  We  didn't  nearly  finish  our  conversation  yes- 
terday." 

And  in  walked  Citoyen  Tallien. 

TalHen,  at  his  worst  and  at  his  best,  was  more  or  less 
dependent  on  others.  He  could  crush  heavily,  like  a  big 
stone  accurately  flung,  but  he  had  little  or  no  real  power. 
He  loved  large  effects.  He  had  wetted  liis  fleshy  lips,  in 
glad  anticipation  of  the  September  massacres,  and  had 


TERROR  279 

borne  himself  so  foolishly  at  that  dismal  affair  that  much 
of  the  responsibility  for  the  gross  entertainment  will  for 
ever — justly  or  unjustly — cling  to  his  memory.  He  did 
not  (as  far  as  we  know)  swing  a  club  himself,  nor  thrust 
a  pike  at  defenceless  womanhood,  but  he  was  one  of  the 
responsible  factors  of  the  carnage.  We  can  imagine  him, 
whistling  beneath  his  breath,  at  some  handy  street  door — 
and  exultantly  (at  a  distance)  following  the  rush  of 
action ;  breathing  heavily ;  alive  to  the  danger  and  the 
triumph — ever  a  coward,  he,  "the  butcher  of  Bordeaux." 

Not  so  to-day.  He'd  come  into  liis  kingdom  and  he 
knew  that  his  new  spiritual  clothes  fitted  him  a  marveille. 
He  and  his  former  chief  now  shared,  as  it  were,  a  per- 
ambulator for  two,  the  Revolution  being  an  impartial, 
deft-handed  nurse.  She  made  no  difference  between  her 
gifted  children.  ...  In  the  train  of  this  comfortable  re- 
flection, Tallien  suddenly  remembered  the  fate  of  his  con- 
freres, Danton  and  the  brilliant,  gentlemanly  Desmoulins 
— for  a  moment  he  winced,  and  veiled  liis  momentary  alarm 
by  a  cheap  witticism. 

"Extraordinary  cheap  living  in  Paris,"  he  said,  "when 
the  nation  can  afford  to  sell  Notre-Dame^  for  six  pounds 
ten  shillings.  I  was  passing  the  Cathedral  this  morning, 
and  was  much  amused  at  a  notice  nailed  on  the  great  door 
to  the  effect  that  one  Jean  Pierre,  an  ironmonger,  had, 
by  public  auction,  acquired  the  church,  including  all  in- 
ventories, for  the  said  sum.     Dirt-cheap,  I  call  it." 

"A  very  poor  price,"  agreed  Robespierre.  "Churches 
are  a  drug  on  the  market.  I  put  no  reserve  on  Notre- 
Dame.  The  man  has  probably  got  his  money  back  in  the 
ironwork  alone — and  the  stained  glass,  they  tell  me,  is 
quite  valuable." 

"Is  he  going  to  pull  it  down?" 

1  As  late  as  1R33  the  following  inscription  was  affixed  to  the  south- 
ern tower  of  Notre-Dame:  "National  Property.  For  Sale." — Dr. 
Poumies  de  la  Bihoutie. 

Owing  to  a  difference  of  opinion,  the  Cathedral  only  remained  the 
property  of  the  irousmith  for  a  few  weeks,  when  the  nation  bought 
it  back  again. 


280  TORCHLIGHT 

"I  never  meddle  with  an  honest  citizen's  private  prop- 
erty.    Maybe  he  bought  it  on  that  account." 

"Citizen,  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  at  all,  if  presently 
there  was  a  boom  in  religion." 

Robespierre  eyed  Tallien's  rather  florid  coat  and  great 
big  splashing  collar  of  bottle-green  velvet  before  answer- 
ing. 

"Every  rat  has  his  deity,"  he  said,  lisping  the  words 
with  ineffable  conceit.  Then,  sitting  upright  in  his  deep 
arm-chair,  he  crossed  his  meagre  legs,  and  spoke,  quietly. 
"I  am  going  to  apply  for  the  situation,"  he  said. 

Tallien  stared — in  very  frank  amazement. 

"I  intend  to  institute  in  my  own  person  the  glorious 
reign  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Naturally  it  is  a  foregone 
conclusion,  whom,  in  the  first  instance,  the  nation  will 
choose  for  this  enviable  post.  They'll  want  a  firm  man. 
Under  my  guidance  as  the  Supreme  Being,  France  will 
weather  the  storm.  She  shall  pray  to  me,  and,  when  con- 
venient, I  will  answer  her  prayers — when  convenient,"  he 
repeated,  tapping  his  fingers  together.  "It'll  be  no  sine- 
cure, my  friend.  But  I  am  convinced  it  can  be  done  by 
reason,  humane  treatment,  and  ceremony.  The  people 
love  ceremony;  the  flare  of  colored  lights  and  audacity 
would  appeal  to  their  imagination — they'll  get  their 
money's  worth  in  ah  ineffaceable  feast  of  love.  Love  is 
a  supreme  factor  in  life.  France  began  by  despising  me. 
She  went  on  to  fear  me.  She  shall  end  by  worshiping 
me."    A  fanatical  light  gleamed  in  his  light  blue  eyes. 

"A  most  interesting  programme,'*  drawled  Tallien, 
yawning.  "How  you  have  changed,  dear  man !  I  remem- 
ber the  time  when  your  humility  hurt  me,  positively  hurt 


me." 


"I  have  changed,"  said  the  other  dreamily.  "It  is  not 
so  very  long  ago  that  I  was  obliged  to  break  off  my  legal 
business  because  I  found  certain  formalities  incompatible 
with  my  conscience." 

Talhen  sighed  unctuously.  "You  have  passed  that  mile- 
stone in  your  life,"  he  said  cheerily,  "and  passed  it  very 


TERROR  281 

successfully.  Ha,  ha !  jour  scruples,  by  now,  would  not 
cover  a  pin's  head." 

Robespierre  bounded  to  his  feet. 

"And  I'll  go  on  to  the  bitter  end !"  he  shouted.  "Do 
you  think  I  care  what  you  charlatans  say?  I  alone  rule 
France !  I  am  the  deity  of  regenerated  France.  Through 
me  shall  tribulation  cease  to  be,  and  all  manner  of  wicked- 
ness. I  can  see  peace  ahead — a  purged  and  purified 
country.  Friends  and  foes  alike  shall  die  in  the  national 
cause.  Even  you,  my  dear,  dear  Tallien,  even  you.  Your 
blood  shall  flow  in  a  wave  of  rejoicing.  What  matters  the 
fate  of  the  units,  if  the  hallowed  principles  are  left  intact? 
Religion  and  life  are  indissolubly  joined  together.  I  have 
given  the  people  great  joy,  but  they  shall  know  greater. 
Death  to  traitors !  Death !"  He  walked  round  the  room 
with  outstretched  arms,  gesticulating  and  crossing  himself 
devoutly.     "I  am  holy,"  he  said,  "holy !" 

Tallien's  big  eyes  dilated  Avith  fear.  After  all,  he  stood 
leagues  behind  Robespierre  in  confounded  impudence. 
What  was  his  vanity  compared  to  this  maniac's  idolatry 
of  himself?  Had  he  brought  the  Catholic  religion  to 
shame  to  install  himself  in  its  place?  The  people  craved 
a  divinity.  They  might  accept  Robespierre's  monstrous 
demand.  They  might  dance  round  him  in  a  frenzy  of 
fanatical  delight,  waving  bloody  pikes,  as  anchorites  wave 
their  holy  vessels.  In  this  pandemonium,  where  was  his 
allotted  place? 

Tallien's  hand  shook — no  nervous  tremor,  but  a  down- 
right, obvious  movement.  He  was  frightened.  The  pleas- 
ant April  morning  seemed  alive  with  visible  demons  drag- 
ging him  down.  .  .  .  Look  at  Danton's  fate — a  man  of 
resolute  integrity.  None  could  shake  Danton,  they'd 
said — and  none  could  buy  him.  Robespierre,  that  little, 
palsied,  dancing  satyr,  had  not  only  shaken  him,  but  he'd 
killed  him.  He  had  denounced  him,  and  he  had  fallen, 
fallen  in  the  prime  of  life ;  fallen  not  as  a  giant  falls,  but 
like  an  insignificant  cone  from  the  great  tree  of  life.    The 


282  TORCHLIGHT 

wind  had  passed  over  him  and  no  one  r^^iembered  is 
place.   .  .  . 

"Tallien?" 

Tallien  looked  up  and  bowed  very  deferentially  t ;  the 
little  man  in  a  sky-blue  coat — with  a  very  white  and  very 
well  crimped  wig  set  on  his  narrow  head — who  now  held 
out  a  hot,  damp  hand  of  reconciliation  to  his  friend. 

"Forgive  my  impetuosity,"  he  said,  warmly.  "I  want 
to  hear  more  about  yourself.  I  rather  fancy  at  Bordeaux 
the  lion  in  love  behaved  indiscreetly.  Remember  a  public 
man  has  no  privacy." 

Tallien's  blatant  vanity  was  tickled  by  Robespierre's 
reference  to  his  love-affair.  He  smiled  all  over  his  big  face. 
He  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  large  red  silk  handkerchief 
patterned  in  yellow  and  green — he  was  devilish  hot.  (An 
interview  with  Robespierre  generally  left  him  either  warm 
or  cold.   .  .   .)     Then  he  blew  his  enormous  nose,  gustily. 

Robespierre  observed  him  carefully.  Certainly,  this 
erstwhile  printer's  devil  had  expanded  into  a  very  fashion- 
able young  man.  His  taste  in  jewelry  was,  however,  vul- 
gar. His  hands  were  loaded  with  rings.  His  watch-fob 
displayed  immense  diamonds.  His  cravat-pin — one  huge 
pink  pearl — looked,  somehow,  like  a  boil,  displaced  from 
his  fleshy  cheek.  His  face  had  grown  fatter.  His  big 
eyes  had  a  rim  of  pink  on  each  heavy  lid — they  were  blood- 
shot, too.  Probably  excesses, — in  divers  directions — had 
ruined  his  health. 

Robespierre  smiled.  "Really  I  ouglit  to  scold  you,'* 
he  said.  "You  are  a  dangerous  3'^oung  man." 

Tallien,  enlarged  his  smile,  if  possible.  (j\Iost  of  us 
like  to  be  called  dangerous  and  young.  Youth  is  precious, 
and  danger,  under  certain  conditions,  implies  charming 
potentialities.) 

Tallien  spread  out  his  large  hands  and  slowly  twisted 
a  three-foiled  diamond  ring  round  his  right  index  finger. 
Then  he  looked  up  and  said,  with  engaging  frankness: 

"As  to  that  little  matter,  I  plead  guilty.'* 

"How  so.?" 


TERROR  28a 

*'Ci-devant  Fontenay  was  practically  in  a  helpless  posi- 
tion at  Bordeaux.  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  look  after 
her." 

"There  is  a  limit  to  mercy." 

Tallien  laughed  loudly.  "True,  but  never  to  a  woman's 
demands." 

"What  did  she  want.?" 

Again  Tallien  smiled  in  a  halo  of  very  agreeable  recol- 
lections. So  bright  were  they  that  they  blinded  him  to 
Robespierre's  evident  want  of  sympathy.  "Love,"  he 
said,  "and  love,  and  more  love." 

"And  you  could  satisfy  her,  I  suppose.?" 

"Good  Lord,  yes !" 

"And  incidentally,  yourself?" 

Tallien  utterly  forgot  his  caution.  "She  is  adorable!" 
he  sputtered.  "A  woman  in  a  million,  beautiful,  clever, 
possessed  of  every  virtue  under  the  sun !  I  assure  you,  if 
vou  knew  her  better,  you  would  grow  to  respect  her. 
Come  over  to  my  little  place.  I'll  ask  her  to  meet  you  at 
dinner.  Name  your  own  day,  citoyen.  I  know  you  are 
a  very  busy  man.  We'll  be  delighted  to  see  you,  delighted. 
She  is  a  darling,  and  playful  as  a  kitten,  a  dear  little  soft 
kitten.  You  must  be  kind  to  her.  I  insist  on  kindness. 
Remember  she  is  as  shy  as  a  dove — la  petite.  Promise  me, 
citoyen,  to  honor  us  at  your  very  earliest  opportunity. 
Terezia  shall  feed  you  well  and,  if  you  still  appreciate 
music,  she  shall,  after  dinner,  sing  to  you  ^Les  Trois  Sceurs 
en  defile,''  a  song  in  a  thousand.  .  .  ."  Here  Tallien  sud- 
denly became  aware  of  Robespierre's  lack  of  interest  in 
his  hospitality. 

A  tremor  chilled  his  vein  of  warm  enthusiasm.  The 
pleasant  little  dinner  the  pretty  little  song,  a  reunion  of 
two  lovers  and  a  friend,  faded  as  a  dream  which  is  told. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  without  flinching. 
They  wanted  to  tear  out  each  other's  secrets,  to  measure 
each  other's  strength ;  each  wanted,  if  possible,  to  get  the 
other  at  a  disadvantage. 

Robespierre's  icy  glance  changed  into  an  expression  of 


284  TORCHLIGHT 

contemptuous  disapproval.  He  spat  on  the  floor — once, 
twice,  thrice. 

"I  have  put  your  mistress  under  observation,"  he  said 
briefly.  "Last  night  I  made  out  an  order  of  arrest  for 
the  citoyenne  Terezia  Carrabus," 

Tallien  jumped  forward.  "I  tell  you  she  is  mine!"  he 
shouted,  opening  his  jaws  to  their  widest  extent. 

"I  tell  you  she  is  mine !"  mimicked  the  Dictator,  mouth- 
ing back  again.  "You  little — big  worm !  Stay  where 
you  are!  Remember,  my  very  excellent  deputy,  that  any 
man  is  liable  to  pay,  with  his  own  life,  for  seditious  lan- 
guage. The  sanctity  of  the  State  is  inviolable."  Robes- 
pierre raised  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

Tallien  smoothed  his  windpipe  with  the  index  finger  and 
the  thumb  of  his  right  hand.  His  big  nails  were  very 
bright  and  in  need  of  cutting. 

"She  is  innocent,"  he  murmured,  uncertainly. 

*'I  think  not.  I  consider  the  lady  a  dangerous  person 
to  the  community." 

Tallien  nodded.  "No  doubt  you  are  right,  citoyen" 
he  said,  still  in  that  same  strangled  voice  of  his. 

*'No  doubt,"  agreed  Robespierre  smoothly,  "we  will 
come  to  an  amicable  settlement  later  on.  I  have  an  en- 
gagement this  morning.  For  the  matter  of  that,  I  can 
ofl'er  you  a  very  "good  seat  if  you  care  to  see  the  show. 
We  have  rather  a  notable  execution  on  this  morning — that 
of  Elizabeth,  Louis  Capet's  sister,  you  know." 

Tallien  bowed,     "I  thank  you.     You  are  very  kind." 

"Dear  fellow!  Don't  mention  it.  What  is  the  time.'* 
Ten  o'clock?  We'd  better  be  going.  Samson  is  sulky  if 
he's  kept  waiting.  He  is  sure  to  have  a  large  attendance 
this  morning.  It  is  a  fine  day,  and  people  still  take  a 
curious  interest  in  the  Capet  family.  Nothing  dies  so 
hard  as  tradition.  I  assure  you  the  widow's  execution, 
though  spoiled  by  bad  weather,  attracted  an  enormous 
concourse  of  sightseers.  She  was  nothing  to  look  at — 
any  other  old  woman  would  have  done  in  her  place,  except 
ior  the  name.    Her  spirit  was  broken  at  the  trial,  where 


TERROR  285 

they   certainly   put   her   through    some    nasty   questions- 
How  do  you  like  my  new  hat?     It  is  quaint,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is  delightful,"  said  Tallien  vaguely,  engrossed  by 
his  own  unpleasant  predicament. 

He  watched  his  friend  very  carefully  adjust  the  new 
hat  on  his  splendid  new  wig,  and  then  take  up  a  stick  of 
lip  salve  and  gently  stroke  his  lips.  The  effect,  probably, 
v/asn't  an  artistic  success,  because  the  Dictator  with  an 
oath,  rubbed  the  stuff  off  with  a  piece  of  rather  dirty  cot- 
ton-wool. He  only  regained  his  composure  after  a  sidelong 
glance  at  himself  in  the  mirror.  Quite  distinctly  he  mur- 
mured to  his  bodyguard  of  invisible  spirits,  "I  am  Robes- 
pierre .  .  .  Ro-bes-pierre !"  His  voice  wailed  across  the 
untidy  room.    He  was  evidently  crooning  a  beloved  litany. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  taking  up  his  walking-cane  and  a  pair 
of  white  kid  gloves,  made  out  of  skins  a  la  mode,^  "Louis 
Capet's  sister  dies  this  morning.  A  stubborn  creature. 
She  won't  give  us  any  fun,  I  promise  you.  The  grand 
air  is  tedious.  Come  along;  I  have  promised  to  be  pres- 
ent, and  it  would  not  be  etiquette  to  keep  the  good  Eliza- 
beth waiting.     I  am  rather  punctilious  in  these  matters.'* 

"Certainly,"  said  Tallien,  dully.  "I  suppose  she  is  the- 
last  of  that  particular  lot?" 

"Yes,  except  the  children,  of  course.  I  don't  approve 
of  killing  children.  The  Dauphin  has  a  very  comfortable 
home  at  the  Temple,  and  presently  he'll  be  apprenticed  to 
Simon,  the  shoemaker,  and  taught  his  master's  trade." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Tallien,  grinning  at  this  piece  of 
exquisite  wit.  "Everyone  knows  how  splendidly  the  king's 
son  is  treated.  Dressed  in  fine  linen  and  purple  every 
day." 

"I  won't  answer  for  the  linen,"  interrupted  RobespieiT& 
facetiously,  "but  I'll  swear  to  the  purple." 

He  was  alluding  to  the  bruises  on  the  little  boy's  at- 
tenuated body. 

1  "At  Meudon,"  says  Montguillard,  "there  was  a  tannery  of  human 
skins;  of  such  of  the  guillotined  as  seemed  worth  flaying;  of  which 
perfectly  good  wash-leather  was  made,  for  breeches  and  other  pur-- 
poses." 


286  TORCHLIGHT 

The  two  redoubtable  leaders  of  the  Jacobins  walked  at 
a  quick  pace,  linked  arm-in-arm,  towards  the  Place  de  la 
Revolution.  The  streets  were  very  crowded  with  pedes- 
trians and  wheeled  traffic.  It  was  a  lovely  day,  warm  and 
exquisitely  fresh.  At  No.  68,  Rue  St.  Honore,  a  haw- 
thorn tree,  in  full  bloom,  attracted  Robespierre's  admira- 
tion. 

"Wliat  a  symbol  of  life  to  come!"  he  said,  halting  for 
a  moment,  and  pointing  out  the  white  blossom  to  Tallien. 

A  flower-seller  drew  his  attention  next.  He  smiled 
kindly  at  the  woman,  gave  her  a  coin,  and  selected  from 
her  fragrant  basket  two  bunches  of  violets.  The  one  he 
pinned  in  his  own  coat;  and  the  other  he  presented  to 
Tallien. 

"Dear  friend,"  he  said,  "accept  it  as  a  mark  of  eternal 
friendship.  II  faut  faire  ce  petit  sacrifice;  for  yourself, 
if  for  no  one  else,  you  must  denounce  this  nice  lady  of 
Bordeaux.  Otherwise  consequences  might  be  serious.  I 
am  only  giving  you  a  friendly  hint — take  it  or  leave  it." 

Tallien  placed  his  bunch  of  violets  in  the  button-hole  of 
his  green  velvet  lapel.    "Thanks,"  he  said.    "I'll  take  it." 


CHAPTER   XXXVni 

'T' ALLIEN  felt  sick  at  heart.  He  toolc  not  the  smallest 
■*•  interest  in  ci-devant  Princess  Elizabeth*s  dull  execu- 
tion. He  considered  her  farewell  embrace  of  a  former 
lady  of  her  court  as  being  demonstrative  and  in  bad  taste. 
Hadn't  they  sufficient  time  for  kissing  and  hugging  in 
prison,  without  requiring  to  do  so  in  public?  He  had 
noticed  a  woman  in  the  crowd  lay  aside  her  knitting- 
needles  and  surreptitiously  wipe  away  a  tear  .  .  .  d d 

cheap  emotion !  And  all  for  a  ci-devant  princess !  Women 
were  all  alike — undependable,  not  worthy  of  an  honest 
man's  true  affection.  He  must  accustom  himself  to  look 
upon  Terezia  as  a  rose  which  has  bloomed.  He  had  gath- 
ered the  rose,  worn  it  next  his  heart,  tended  it  with  utmost 
care,  and  now  the  rose  was  dead,  he'd  have  to  fling  it  on 
the  dustpan  and  get  a  new  one. 

Tallien  tapped  his  heavy  cane  on  the  rude  flooring  of 
Robespierre's  private  box — exactly  facing  the  execution- 
er's platform.  .  .  .  Lord!  what  a  lengthy  show!  One 
hundred  and  ninety-seven  executions — a  mixed  lot,  most 
of  them  pale,  and  speechless,  like  rather  tattered  rag-dolls. 
One  by  one  they  mounted  the  platform.  One  by  one  they 
were  carried  down — a  back  way — and  thrust  higgledy- 
piggledy  into  a  waiting  cart.  Tallien  could  just  see, 
round  the  comer,  a  distasteful  procession  of  mean  wag- 
ons waiting  for  their  unsavory  loads.  Even  the  drivers 
looked  grim  and  bored.  Over  all  the  fragrance  of  God's 
perfect  day. 

By  a  mere  chance,  a  company  of  swallows,  probably 
journeying  north,  had  alighted  on  the  highest  post  of  the 
scaffolding.  There  must  have  been  twenty  of  them,  plum- 
ing their  feathers  trilling  their  love-songs,  and  looking 
^own  on  the  great  human  beings ;  these  gifted,  wonderful, 

287 


288  TORCHLIGHT 

august  human  beings  who,  naturally,  intimidated  little 
birds.  .  .  . 

Tallien  writhed  on  his  hard  wooden  chair.  The  silence 
around  him  was  depressing,  awful.  Even  Robespierre,  in 
the  brilliant  light  of  immortal  spring,  looked  more  than 
usually  green.  He  might  have  been  an  animated  corpse. 
,  .  .  Look  now,  that  head  (just  being  shown  to  the  people 
by  Samson's  assistant)  was  far  more  alive  than  he  .  .  , 
quite  a  pretty  little  face,  too ;  the  eyes  were  wide  open, 
wdth  a  sweet  and  happy  expression  .  .  .  extraordinary. 
.  .  .  How  would  Terezia  appear  under  the  same  circum- 
stances? They  would  be  sure  to  pick  her  out  for  exhi- 
bition.    Samson  had  a  pretty  taste  in  female  beauty. 

By  the  living  God!  he  would  not  participate  in  such  a 
foul  deed !  He  loved  her !  His  woman !  His  soul !  His 
life !  His  all  in  all !  .  .  .  He  loved  her  ...  he  would 
save  her  ...  he  would  die  with  her,  holding  her  lovely 
mouth  pressed  to  his  adoring  lips.  A  little  dose  of  poison, 
and  the  daylight  would  be  forever  shuttered.  Probably 
it  was  very  comfortable  in  the  deep,  dark  grave.  He 
would  implore  the  House  to  give  him,  and  Terezia,  a 
private  place  of  interment.  He  would  choose  it  himself, 
miles  away  from  tormented  Paris,  and  in  some  little  coun- 
try churchyard,  maybe  under  the  guardianship  of  a  young 
hawthorn  tree,  they'd  sleep  forever.  The  tree  would  grow, 
year  by  year,  and  expand  and  whisper  over  the  tomb  of 
Xiove  Everlasting.  .  .   . 

Tallien  gave  a  huge  sigh. 

Then  he  perceived  the  beauty  of  the  day  and  the  awful 
ugliness  of  death.  He  was  not  ready  to  die.  He  must  (O 
harrowing  thought!)  let  Terezia  take  the  strange  journey 
all  alone.  His  loving  thoughts  would  follow  her  along 
"the  road. 

"How  are  you?  Nice  to  see  you  back  In  Paris,  looking 
so  fit  and  well.     Saint-Just  is  speaking — stay  and  listen.'* 

"Thanks,  thanks,  but  I  must  fly.  I  have  business  in  the 
committee-room." 


TERROR  289 

*'I'll  keep  a  place  for  you.  They  are  sure  to  wrangle 
sooner  or  later — so  amusing.     Nice  morning,  isn't  it?" 

^'Delightful,"  murmured  Tallien,  smiling  at  a  cluster  of 
deputies,  new  and  old.  It  was  a  time  of  quick  promotion, 
or  as  some  said,  of  quick  disgrace.  Whatever  the  cause 
of  the  vacancy,  the  House  had  to  be  filled — and  a  jabber- 
ing monkey-house  it  was ! 

Tallien,  trying  to  walk  upright,  swaggered  out  of  the 
hall,  followed  by  many  curious  glances.  Robespierre's 
warm  affection  for  him  had  been  a  matter  of  some  specula- 
tion amongst  the  members.  All  day  he'd  hardly  allowed 
him  out  of  his  sight.  Together  they  had  lunched — after 
witnessing  the  executions — at  Gaillard's,  a  noted  place 
for  oysters  and  steak  pies.  After  a  protracted  meal  they 
had  walked,  for  half-an-hour,  in  the  gay  arcades  of  the 
ci-devant  Palais  Royal,  now  the  Palais  EgaUte,  where 
each  gentleman  had  bought  a  trifling  piece  of  jewelry 
from  Franchard.  Robespierre  had  his  favorite  spaniel 
tucked  under  his  arm,  and  more  than  once  he  had  been 
observed  to  kiss  the  little  dog,  very  tenderly.  He  always 
kissed  Niniche  when  exceptionally  satisfied. 

Then  these  two  united  friends  had  sat,  side  by  side, 
in  the  House,  listening  to  the  afternoon  debate  with  pro- 
found attention.  Once  or  twice  they  had  whispered  to- 
gether, and  taken  dowTi  hasty  notes  in  their  pocket-books. 

Tallien  walked  into  the  committee-room,  where  some 
dozen  men  sat  round  a  large  table,  sparsely  funiished  with 
a  few  documents.  The  room,  though  large,  was  badly 
ventilated  and  lighted. 

Robespierre  looked  up  at  his  friend's  entrance,  with  his 
goose-quill  suspended  in  his  right  hand.  He  was  just 
about  to  affix  his  signature  to  the  morrow's  death-list. 
A  long  blue  sheet  of  paper  lay  on  his  desk,  neatly  filled 
up  with  a  great  many  names. 

"I'll  want  you  presently,"  he  said  genially  to  Tallien, 
making  room  for  him  by  his  side. 

Tallien  sat  down. 

Every  eye  was  fixed  on  him. 


290  TORCHLIGHT 

Robespierre,  very  briefly,  scanned  the  official  document, 
wrote  his  name  quickly  at  the  bottom  of  the  sheet  and 
handed  it  to  a  waiting  clerk  who  took  it  with  a  deep  bow. 

"I  am  gratified,"  he  said,  "to  be  able  to  inform  you, 
citizens  that  the  executions  have  been  quadrupled.  At  the 
present  moment  we  have  in  Paris  awaiting  their  trial, 
some  twelve  thousand  prisoners,  all  incarcerated  on  very 
grave  charges.  I  grieve  to  tell  you,  that,  daily  their 
number  is  augmented  by  the  admission  of  fresh  criminals 
of  the  deepest  dye." 

Robespierre  sighed  and,  with  his  pen,  absently  drew  on 
his  blotting-pad  a  little  nondescript  drawing. 

No  one  answered  this  statement. 

"Paris  is  a  hotbed  of  vice,"  continued  their  leader, 
in  the  same  level,  calm,  matter-of-fact  tone.  "Citizens, 
it  is  our  duty  to  sink  our  individual  differences,  nay,  our 
very  affections  in  our  country's  interests."  He  looked 
at  Tallien.  "It  is  gratifying  to  hear  such  excellent  re- 
ports of  the  good  work  done  in  Bordeaux.  According  to 
my  able  ally  and  dear  friend,  Tallien,  the  town  is  practi- 
cally drained  of  seditious  Influence.  He  has  not  spared 
himself  in  the  exercise  of  his  duty." 

"I  have  done  my  best,"  said  Tallien,  modestly. 

Robespierre  thoughtfully  rubbed  his  little  pointed  chin. 

"Such  unflinching-honesty  of  purpose  deserves  recogni- 
tion.    I  call  for  a  vote  of  thanks  for  Citoyen  Tallien." 

Tallien  held  up  a  deprecating  hand.  "Citizens,"  he 
said  humbly,  "I  am  but  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  the 
Almighty,  and  my  best  reward  lies  in  the  calmness  of  my 
conscience  and  in  my  sublime  faith  in  the  future." 

Two  or  three  voices  murmured  approval  at  such  noble 
sentiments,  and  one  bewildered  legislator  whispered  be- 
neath his  breath,  "Dear  Christ,  forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do."  No  one  heard  this  petition  to  a 
Savior  who,  officially,  no  longer  existed  in  France. 

Robespierre  sighed  again ;  perceiving  his  careless  draw- 
ing in  front  of  him,  he  very  carefully  tore  off  the  offend- 


TERROR  291 

ing  sheet,  crushed  it  in  his  hand,  and  flung  it  into  the 
waste-paper  basket. 

"As  you  know,  citizens,"  he  continued,  "we  have  lately 
been  wounded  in  our  most  sacred  feelings  by  malicious 
rumors  from  Bordeaux.  It  gives  me  much  pleasure  to  be 
able  to  give  you  a  fresh  proof  of  Citoyen  Tallien's  un- 
tarnished honor.  To  allay  scandalous  reports  connecting 
his  good  name  with  that  of  a  somewhat  notorious  lady, 
my  friend  gives  us  the  lie  direct  by  denouncing  (he  looked 
at  a  paper  on  his  desk) — denouncing  Citoyenne  Terezia 
Carrabus  as  a  person  dangerous  to  the  community.  Need 
we  question  his  disinterested  motives?  The  lady  has  en- 
joyed his  virtuous  friendship — is  it  not  so.'"' 

"Yes,"  answered  Tallien,  briskly. 

"Of  his  own  free  will,  for  the  good  of  our  beloved 
France,  he  renounces  his  friendship " 

A  murmur  of  sympathetic  approval  greeted  these 
words. 

Tallien  rose  and  bowed  to  the  chairman. 

"I  denounce  the  Citoyenne  Terezia  Carrabus  the  di- 
vorced wife  of  ci-devant  de  Fontenay,  domiciled  in  Paris, 
on  the  charge  of  plotting  against  the  Government,"  he 
said. 

"Hear!  hear!" 

Robespierre  wiped  his  eyes.  Then  he  looked  at  Tallien 
"Be  so  kind  as  to  sign  your  indictment  officially.  Citizens. 
I  will  want  two  witnesses  below  Citoyen  Tallien's  signa- 
ture." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tallien. 

Robespierre  glanced  at  the  attested  paper  which  Tallien 
formally  handed  to  him. 

"If  the  Carrabus  is  found  guilty  of  the  indictment  on 
which  she  is  charged  she  shall  be  condemned  to  death,"  he 
said. 

Tallien  bowed. 

"You  agree  with  me,  citizen?" 

"I  agree,"  said  Tallien. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 

T>EING  an  esceptioiiallj  light  moraing,  the  blessed  sun- 
"^  shine  was  actually  penetrating  the  very  blurred  win- 
dow of  Madame  de  Beauharnais,  first-floor  bedroom,  which 
she  had  the  privilege  of  sharing  with  two  other  ladies.  She 
considered  herself  very  fortunate  in  having  secured  a 
lodging  so  much  coveted  on  account  of  its  privacy. 

On  the  ground  floor  the  apartments — or  dungeons — 
were  all  large,  and  consequently  overcrowded ;  in  some 
of  the  rooms  more  than  forty  prisoners  were  confined  in 
close  discomfort. 

Madame  la  vicomtesse  de  Beauharnais — ever  a  charming 
optimist — looked  upon  her  privileges  as  far  outweighing 
her  miseries.  She  had  lived  in  this  little  box  of  a  room 
for  over  five  months,  and  by  this  time  she  made  light  of  its 
poor  ventilation — after  all,  you  couldn't  expect  prison 
windows  to  open,  and  as  to  the  wretched  straw  palliasse 
which  she  shared  with  her  two  companions  in  misfortune, 
it  was  dirty,  certainly,  but  it  did  not  actually  walk  away. 
Well,  yes,  the  wooden  floor,  she  admitted,  might  have  been 
cleaner  with  advantage,  but  stone  was  infinitely  colder  than 
wood.  The  soup  was  nasty,  nasty,  but  remember,  clieres 
amies,  that  without  soup  they  would  expire — not  prettily. 
Before  a  lady  died  of  stai'vation  she  got  very  ugly  and 
thin — so  thin!  (Madame  de  Beauharnais  would  demon- 
strate the  figure  of  a  starving  lady  by  means  of  one  of  her 
precious  hairpins,  twisted  into  a  spiral.)  True,  the  want 
of  fresh  linen  was  a  great  trial.  Mais,  que  voulez-vous? 
you  had  your  capable  hands  and  a  piece  of  real  soap.  .  .  . 

*'Terezia,  Ninon, — say  what  vou  will,"  said  the  charm- 
mg  Creole,  taking  up  her  one  and  only  chemise  from  the 
basin  and  wringing  it  out  carefully,  "we  are  extremely 

292 


TERROR  293 

fortunate.  God  is  good,  and  Joseph  Is  a  darling.  To 
give  us  pleasure  he  has  risked  his  head,  and  ours,  seventy 
times  seven."  (Joseph  had  procured  them  the  tablet  of 
soap.) 

One  day  this  angel,  in  the  disguise  of  a  surly  turnkey, 
had  brought  his  "favorites"  (of  course  they  were  favor- 
ites) a  bunch  of  white  lilac — real  white  lilac.  It  was 
before  Terezia  was  admitted  to  the  restless  intimacy  of 
Cell  306. 

A  week  before  her  arrival  Joseph  had  astounded  the 
viscountess  and  the  duchess  by  this  wonderful  gift.  As 
they  could  not  very  well  kiss  Joseph  they  had  kissed  each 
other,  and,  as  water  was  as  scarce  as  soap,  they  had 
prudently  watered  their  precious  "garden"  (it  grew  at 
once  Into  a  marvelous,  spacious,  delicious  garden) — that 
modest  bunch  of  drooping  lilac — with  their  tears.  They 
had  to  cry — It  was  so  beautiful. 

They  hadn't  the  heart  to  throw  away  the  garden  when, 
all  too  soon.  It  faded  and  drooped,  and  the  little  white, 
perfumed  honey  petals  turned  a  dingy  brown.  It  was  still 
there — on  the  window-shelf — and  all  three  ladies  obdur- 
ately refused  to  acknowledge  that  their  garden  had,  prac- 
tically, been  a  failure.  Joseph  did  not  dare  cart  in  another 
freehold — a  prison  is  full  of  jealousy  and  espionage  and 
scandal.  He  explained  this  to  the  ladies,  when  he  called 
them  to  have  their  dinner  In  the  common  hall  .  .  .  ugh! 
How  Josephine,  Terezia  and  Ninon  loathed  the  dining- 
room  ineffectually  lighted  by  dim  lanterns,  where  the  rats 
and  mice  and  spiders  and  cockroaches  made  free  of  their 
poor  finery  with  their  indecent  prison  manners.  The  rats 
at  Les  Carmes  were  the  most  offensive  beasts  on  earth, 
not  even  excepting  Robespierre. 

Across  their  little  window  the  ladies  had  strung  a  line. 
Owing  to  the  exigencies  of  space,  Monday  was  Josephine's 
washing  day ;  Thursday,  Ninon's ;  Saturday,  Terezia's. 
It  was  Monday  to-day — a  glorious  Monday!  Through 
the  grimy  panes  the  young  April  sun  shot  a  delicious 
promissory  note  into  the  hearts  of  the  prisoners. 


294  TORCHLIGHT 

Josephine  shook  out  her  chemise  and  hung  it  on  the 
line.  "When  the  sun  is  shining,"  she  murmured,  "there 
is  no  reason  to  complain.  The  sun  is  the  best  doctor  in 
the  world.  Children,  think  of  our  friends  of  the  dungeons, 
condemned  to  perpetual  darkness  and  the  perpetual  so- 
ciety of  underbred  people.  All  very  well  to  talk  of  the 
sisterhood  of  suffering — I,  for  one,  could  never  suffer  a 
vulgar  woman.  Imagine  Blanche  de  la  Tremouille's  feel- 
ings, being  boxed  up  with  that  old  shrew  of  a  rag-picker — 
her  late  bailiff's  wife.  It  is  an  outrage  to  our  class  to 
denounce  such  creatures." 

"I  did  not  see  Madame  de  Tremouille  last  night  at 
dinner,"  said  Terezia  Carrabus,  dully. 

Josephine,  in  the  act  of  pulling  out  her  stockings,  let 
them  drop  to  the  floor.  "You  are  quite  right,"  she  said; 
*'she  was  not  there."  Tears  welled  out  of  her  beautiful 
eyes  and  coursed  down  her  pale  cheeks.  "It  hurts — it 
still  hurts.  Bah !  what  nonsense  philosophers  talk  in  say- 
ing you  can  grow  accustomed  to  everything.  It  only 
shows  you  what  shocking  nonsense  clever  people  talk." 

She  picked  up  the  stockings  and  shook  them  violently, 

Madame  la  duchesse  d'Aiguillon  observed  her  anxiously. 
"Pray  be  more  careful,  raadame,  they  won't  bear  rough 
handling,"  she  said. 

Josephine  sighed,  and,  with  a  graceful  gesture,  wiped 
away  her  tears  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  Smiling,  rather 
forlornly,  she  held  up  her  stockings  to  the  light;  they 
were  full  of  holes. 

"I  don't  understand  it,"  she  said  petulantly.  "We 
hardly  ever  take  exercise,  and,  as  a  rule,  I  only  put  them 
on  for  dinner.  I  will  never  again  go  to  Fouchet  for  my 
stockings,  never!'* 

"Madame,  I  believe  you,"  said  Terezia,  in  the  same 
toneless  voice. 

She  was  seated  on  the  one  stool  the  room  afforded,  with 
her  head  supported  in  her  hands,  looking  the  picture  of 
woebegone  beauty.  A  week  in  prison  hadn't  taken  her 
hair  out  of  curl,  nor  the  peach  bloom  out  of  her  com- 


TERROR  295 

plexion,  nor  the  surpassing  elegance  out  of  her  splendidly 
clean  dress.  She  wore  a  dark  shade  of  navy  silk,  with  a 
black  silk  sash  and  innumerable  frills  of  real  Valenciennes 
lace.  Round  her  bare  throat  was  a  gold  chain,  holding 
a  pendant  set  with  one  large  aquamarine  surrounded  with 
diamonds.  On  the  shelf,  beside  the  dismal  lilac  plantation, 
lay  an  elegant  hat  trimmed  with  shaded  blue  feathers  and 
a  touch  of  velvet.  Against  the  dingy  drab  walls,  scrawled 
and  splashed  and  defaced,  that  hat  looked  like  a  gaudy 
peacock.  Needless  to  say,  Josephine  had  admired  it  im- 
mensely, and  had  tried  it  on — several  times — by  the  re- 
flection of  Madame  d'Aiguillon's  voice.  They  had  no 
other  looking-glass  but  each  other's  kindly  verdict. 
Madame  d'Aiguillon  had  much  approved  of  the  hat.    .    .    . 

Josephine  very  quickly  and  very  daintily  hung  her 
stockings  on  the  line,  and  pattered  across  in  her  pretty 
bare  feet  to  Terezia;  kneeling  down  at  her  side,  she  im- 
pulsively flung  her  arms  round  her  neck. 

"Petite,"  she  munnured,  "of  course  you  are  feeling 
nervy  and  altogether  miserable.  A  week  of  this  place  is 
torture !  I  wanted  to  fly  out  of  my  skin  after  eight  days 
— it  is  the  truth — now  I  am  almost  contented  with  this 
little  tinpot  basin  of  life.  And  I  don't  really  mind  the 
fleas ;  after  a  time  they  grow  so  sick  of  you  they  don't 
want  to  bite.  I  laugh  at  them !  Cheer  up,  Terezia,  dar- 
ling !  I  know  it  is  fearfully  dull  after  all  your  gay  doings 
in  Bordeaux,  your  nice  parties  and  dresses  and  all  that. 
But  really  it  is  terribly  exciting  to  hear  the  lists  read 
out  at  night.  It  is  also  agreeable  to  meet  old  friends  and 
new  prisoners.  We  are  always  coming  and  going,  hoping 
and  despairing." 

Terezia  gave  a  forlorn  smile,  and  kissed  Josephine  on 
the  mouth. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  "and  very  patient  with 
me." 

"Not  at  all,  I  am  only  selfish.  It  is  far  better  to  try 
and  see  the  best  side  of  everything.     We  can't  get  out — 


296  TORCHLIGHT 

or  at  least  we  don't  want  to  under  the  circumstances — 
so  we  must  just  make  up  our  minds  not  to  grumble." 

"I  would  like  to  scream." 

"Well,  scream — jou  big,  big  donkey !" 

Terezia  laid  her  head  against  Josephine's  shoulder. 
"Everything  is  so  frightful  and  unpleasant " 

'"Indeed  you  are  wrong.  What  is  the  matter  with  this 
room?  Haven't  we  got  a  treasure  in  Joseph?  How 
amusing  that  he  should  have  fetched  you  here.  He  is 
quite  an  amazing  man.  One  day  he  will  burst  in  on  us, 
roaring,  ^Citoyennes,  you  are  all  at  liberty!  All  Paris  is 
free,  free  of  tyranny  and  bloodshed  and  horror!'  Think 
of  it !"  Josephine  swayed  forward  and  clapped  her  hands. 
"I  believe  I  shall  die  of  happiness,"  she  faltered.  "Smile, 
madame !  Beauty  can't  afford  to  frown.  You  are  getting 
two  ugly  lines  on  your  forehead.  Your  eyebrows  are 
shaggy.  See."  Josephine  dexterously  smoothed,  with  the 
tips  of  her  delicate  fingers,  Terezia's  brows.  .  .  .  "That's 
better.     You  look  perfectly  lovely.     Doesn't  she,  Ninon?'* 

"Lovely,"  said  the  duchess. 

Terezia  smiled. 

"Look  here,  you  darling,"  said  Josephine,  jumping  to 
her  feet.  "If  you  promise  never  to  complain  again  (after 
all,  you  have  got  iis!)^  I  will  give  you  my  greatest  treasure 
on  earth.     I  will,  indeed  I  will!     I  love  making  presents." 

Josephine  took  a  small  parcel,  carefully  done  up  in 
brown  paper,  from  the  shelf.  Very  solemnly  she  deposited 
it  in  Terezia's  lap.     "Look,"  she  said. 

Terezia  undid  the  parcel. 

Josephine  gave  a  little  scream  of  delight.  "Isn't  it  a 
beauty?"  she  cried.  "So  white,  so  soft,  so  clean.  I  have 
kept  it  as  the  very  apple  of  my  eye.  No,  no — I  want  you 
to  have  it.  You  weren't  so  prudent  as  myself.  I  took 
two  pocket-handkerchiefs  with  me  when  I  came  here.  I 
put  one,  as  you  see,  carefully  away.  .  .  ."  Josephine 
glanced  at  her  personal  effects  hanging  on  the  line. 
"Dear,  dear,"  she  sighed,  "I  am  such  a  very  bad  washer- 
woman." 


TERROR  297 

*'How  kind  you  are!"  murmured  T^reria. 

"Let  me  feel  it,"  asked  therduchess.  "Isn't  it  deliciousjy 
white?" 

"A  perfect  miracle,"  said  Josephine.  "Won't  jou 
create  a  sensation  to-night  at  dinner!    You  will  be  smart." 

"As  if  she  was  not  always  a  picture,"  said  Madame 
d'Aiguillon.  "And  her  clothes  will  laat.  I  love  that  shade 
of  blue." 

**Pauvre  Ninon,  never  mind,"  consoled  Josephine.  "By 
candle-light  dirty  white  always  looks  elegant." 

"They  would  not  give  me  time  to  change.  As  it  hap- 
pened, I  was  just  coming  home  from  dining  with  Aunt 
Gabrielle."  The  duchess  looked  mournfully  down  at  her 
white  satin  dress,  and  held  out  for  inspection  a  pair  of 
small  white  satin  shoes  with  red  heels  and  little  red  roset- 
tes, sadly  the  worse  for  wear.  The  dress  was  trimmed 
Mdth  silver  lace,  and  rosettes  of  crimson  velvet;  it  was 
low-necked,  and  charmingly  made — ^but,^  alas,  after  six 
months'  daily  wear  and  tear,  what  can  you  expect  of  white 
satin,  but  dirt?  Madame  d'AiguiUon  sighed  deeply,  and 
tried  to  hide  her  tattered  shoes. 

"You  vain  puss,"  laughed  Josephine,  "you  ought  to  be 
prudent  and  take  care  of  your  clothes.  As  for  me,"  she 
declared  stoutly,  *'I  love  pale  blue  taffetas,  a  jour  (poking 
her  fingers  through  a  new  hole).  They  arrive,"  she  said, 
"they  always  arrive  in  unexpected  places."  She  squeezed 
Terezia's  hand.  "You'U  last!  Is  it  not  so,  my  friend.'*" 
(to  the  duchess)  "Such  durable  stuff!  I'll  wager  that 
after  six  months  she'll  yet  contrive  to  look  distin- 
guished  " 

"Six  months!"  screamed  Terezla. 

"There,  there.  I  was  only  joking.  Mayn't  I  have  my 
little  fun,  if  it  pleases  me?  I  have  been  here  six  months, 
and  I  know  from  personal  experience  that  a  joke  is  quite 
as  nourishing  as  ox- tail  soup,  with  plenty  of  port  wine 
in  it.  When  you  are  hungry — laugh.  When  you  are  sad 
— laugh.  When  you  are  cold — laugh.  When  you  are 
ill — laugh.    ChJrie,  I  am  a  famous  doctor,  and  all  my  fees 


298  TORCHLIGHT 

I  take  in  kisses."  (She  kissed  Terezia,  and,  rather  than 
leave  Ninon  out  in  the  cold,  she  kissed  her  also.)  "Dear 
friends,  please  say  that  I  am  a  perfectly  delightful  crea- 
ture! I  am  sickening  of  a  dreadful  complaint — the  want 
of  compliments  and  pretty  speeches  and  love-making. 
Chez  nous,  women  only  exist  on  love  and  kisses  and  sun- 
shine." 

Josephine  pulled  at  her  little  corkscrew  curls,  clustering 
round  the  nape  of  her  swan  neck.  Never  had  a  woman  a 
prettier  arch  to  her  throat  than  this  exotic  lady,  nor 
a  prettier  voice,  nor  a  prettier  instep,  nor  a  prettier  lack 
of  assertive  talent.  She  was  not  clever.  (If  she  had  been, 
Napoleon  would  never  have  fallen  in  love  with  her,  and 
never  have  been  in  the  enviable  position  of  crowning  her 
frailty  Empress  of  the  French.)  But  all  this  is  a  long, 
long  way  off,  down  the  ^dsta  of  unimaginable  years. 
Josephine  believed  in  fortune-telling,  much  as  we  believe 
in  fairy  stories,  loving  their  beauty  without  crediting  their 
truth.  The  vigorous  beauty  of  life  filled  her  ears  (when 
her  thoughts  were  not  otherwise  engaged)  as  the  swell  of 
the  sea  lapping  a  shingle  beach.  She  heard  it  without 
realizing  the  call  of  the  deep,  the  strength  of  the  waves, 
or  the  storm  asleep  in  a  shell-tinted  cloud. 

Josephine  stretched  out  her  arm,  and,  taking  her 
wretched  pillow  off  her  wretched  bed,  she  placed  it  on  the 
floor,  at  Terezia's  feet.  "I  am  tired  of  sitting  on  the 
hard  boards,"  she  declared.  "Tired  of  doing  nothing." 
She  curled  herself  up  on  the  pillow  with  inimitable  grace. 

Madame  d'Aiguillon  followed  her  example  and  sat  down 
on  Terezia's  other  side.  Each  lady  fondled  one  of  the 
new-comer's  hands.  A  new-comer  was  always  petted  and 
made  much  of  at  Les  Carmes. 

"Let  us  tell  each  other  stories  to  pass  the  time  profit- 
ably," said  Josephine  dreamily.  "Wonderful  stories, 
magical  as  a  starlit  night  at  Martinique." 

Madame  d'Aiguillon  sighed,     "You  begin,"  she  said. 

"I  can  feel  the  wind  blowing  over  the  bay,"  said  Ma- 


TERROR  299 

dame  de  Beauharnais.  "I  can  hear  the  birds  singing  in 
the  valley,  and  the  ripple  of  a  mountain  stream,  which 
is  always  sweet  and  fresh. 

"The  sea  is  blue,  the  sky  is  blue,  and  the  mountains  are 
blue,  at  Martinique,"  she  continued.  "Everything  is  blue 
which  isn't  green  or  silver  or  rose  or  gold.  Don't  look 
at  that  ugly  gray  wall,  but  imagine  the  splashes  of  vi\Tid 
color!  The  immense  flowers — crimson  and  ^^olet.  The 
little  houses,  bright  as  new  paint,  with  red  roofs  and 
green  shutters,  built  on  the  sloping  terraces  of  a  tropical 
town.  The  narrow  streets  descending  towards  the  harbor 
are  thronged  with  negresses,  dressed  in  their  holiday 
clothes.  Some,  on  the  shady  side  of  the  street,  are  carry- 
ing baskets  of  oranges  and  lemons;  others  are  pushing 
up  the  roadside  loads  of  live  fish,  and  bales  of  scarlet 
cotton,  or  offering  for  sale  green  palm-leaf  fans,  and  little 
flutes  made  out  of  river  grasses.  When  the  night  comes 
home  in  a  glitter  of  stars,  young  lovers  will  find  each 
other  in  the  shadowy  gardens,  where  the  white  roses,  in 
the  moonliglit,  look  like  silver  bells,  and  the  red  carna- 
tions and  the  blue  orchids  like  giant  opals,  hung  on  in- 
visible strings.  Below  the  garden  the  little  waves  will 
murmur  musically ;  sea  and  earth  are  very  close  together. 
Beyond  the  moonlit  town,  winds  the  white  ribbon  of  a 
road  from  St.  Pierre  to  Mont  Pelee.  The  most  wonder- 
ful fairy  story  on  earth  is  dawn  at  Martinique,  when  the 
blue  sea  is  at  full  tide,  and  the  laughing  voices  of  the 
children,  just  awake.  .  .  .  We  are  all  children  at  heart, 
when  we  are  happy.  How  old  are  you,  Terezia.'*  I  am 
ten,  and  presently  I  am  going  to  ride  up  to  the  Gorge 
des  Oiseaux  and  breakfast  on  melons  and  grapes,  at  a 
dear  little  shanty  built  of  logs,  where  Aunt  Clo'  lives. 
She  is  a  witch,  and  she  tells  fortunes.  Seriously — she  is 
enormously  wise !  She  has  told  me  I  am  to  be  married 
twice  (poor  dear  Alexandre!)  and  that  my  fortune  will 
be  finer  than  that  of  a  real  live  queen !  What  do  you  say 
to  such  a  piece  of  astounding  good  luck?  When  I  am  not 
dreaming  of  Martinique — blessed  island ! — I  greatly  fancy 


300  TORCHLIGHT 

myself  as  a  lovely  empress,  in  perfectly  splendid  robes — 
an  extravagant,  popular  empress,  with  all  the  world  at 
her  feet."     She  stretched  out  her  arms  dramatically. 

"And  the  emperor?"  laughed  Ninon. 

"Darling,  he  is  out  of  the  picture.  He  is  a  man,  any- 
way, and  he  loves  me  to  distraction '* 

"And  you  return  his  love?" 

Josephine  made  a  delightful  little  grimace. 

"It  depends.  Do  emperors  want  loving?  I  don't  know, 
and  I  don't  care.  Anyhow,  my  train  is  real — ^yards  and 
yards  of  silk  velvet,  embroidered  all  over  with  crowns,  and 
lined  with  miniver.  Ninon,  Terezia,  you  shall  carry  my 
train!     Remember,  you  have  my  solemn  promise." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ninon. 

"Thank  you"  chimed  in  Terezia  (not  quite  so  srate- 
fully).  V       H  s 

Each  lady  considered  her  own  prospects.  Terezia  was 
the  first  to  break  the  silence,  and  chase  an  exquisite  radi- 
ancy from  the  duchess's  tender  blue  eyes.  (Ninon  was 
dreaming  that  she  was  the  queen  of  her  own  nursery. 
You  see,  somewhere — pray  God  in  safety — she  had  her 
darhng  Ninette  and  Charlemagne-Marie ;  Ninette  was  four 
years  old,  and  Charlemagne  would  be  two  on  May  Day.) 

"Can  one  dream  here?"  asked  Terezia,  laughing  hys- 
terically. 

"Dream !"  cried  the  startled  Josephine,  watching  a  flock 
of  sea-gulls  rise  from  the  coral  reef. 

"Dream!"  cried  Ninon,  hugging  her  children  to  her 
aching  heart. 

Terezia  smiled.  Perhaps  it  was  not  so  absurd  to  fancy 
things. 

"Dream!"  said  Madame  d'AIguillon.  "Why,  we  do 
nothing  else.  We  are  dreaming  all  day  long,  and  all  night 
long.  We  wake  to  dreams,  which  we  have  gathered  dur- 
ing the  night — such  beautiful  dreams.  We  live  in  our 
dreams " 

"Of  the  pp.st?"  asked  Terezia. 

'And  of  the  future,"  said  Josephine. 


a, 


TERROR  301 

"We  make  our  plans — such  sensible  plans!"  said  the 
duchess,  gaily.  "We  buy  new  chemises,  dazzling  white; 
and  new  stockings — crowds  of  them,  piles  of  them,  and  if 
we  discover  a  hole  anywhere,  a  tiny,  infinitesimal  hole,  we 
throw  them  away  at  once !  We  creep  into  enchanting 
beds.  My  bed  is  the  very  acme  of  comfort — all  hung  in  a 
delicate  shade  of  rose  silk  and  snowy  lace  with  great 
downy,  sweet-scented  pillows  and  mountains  of  soft  mat- 
tresses. The  sheets  are  of  the  finest  linen,  and  the  blankets 
— the  blankets  are  exquisite,  soft,  warm,  delicious." 

"That  is  enough,"  said  Josephine,  stroking  Ninon's  yel- 
low curls.  "We  can  realize  your  bed,  m'amie,  without  any 
further  embroidery.  If  you  added  so  much  as  a  waiTning- 
pan  you  would  overdo  it." 

Terezia  kissed  Ninon's  hand. 

"My  bed  is  of  course,"  said  Josephine,  with  her  grand- 
est air,  "a  ve-ry  royal  one.  All  gilding  and  carving  and 
width  and  majesty.  It  is  supplied  with  heavy  curtains — 
gold  brocade,  I  think.  And  there  is  a  very  marvelous 
counterpane  which  has  taken  three  years  to  complete " 

"I  couldn't  wait  so  long,"  said  Terezia. 

"Silly  child!  It  is  an  antique  wliich  has  never  been 
used.  It  has  been  laid  by  on  purpose — there  is  nothing 
extraordinary  which  hasn't  its  purpose — in  a  cedar  chest, 
with  layers  of  spices  and  rose-leaves,  for  more  than  a 
hundred  solid  years.  On  second  thoughts,  I'll  have  it 
wadded  thickly  with  down — eiderdown.  Terezia,  you 
can't  think  how  we  suffered  from  cold  this  cruel  winter. 
Many  times  I  was  convinced  I  would  shiver  and  shiver 
until  I  died,  sobbing  in  the  arms  of  Ninon.  Ninon  tried 
to  be  warm,  but  she  couldn't.  It  was  no  use  even  pretend- 
ing— so  we  sat  up  in  bed  and  cried.  One  night — do  you 
remember,  Ninon? — two  rats  came  out  of  their  holes  and 
looked  at  us.  We  could  see  their  eyes  quite  well  in  the 
darkness.  We  left  off  crying  to  scream.  Presently  I  fell 
asleep  envying  the  silly,  greedy  rats — one  night  they  ate 
aU  the  soap ! — for  their  warm  coats.  Envy  always  makes 
me  hot — so  you  see,  even  a  sin  isn't  lacking  in  grace. 


302  TORCHLIGHT 

.  .  .  Where  was  I?  In  bed,  of  course!  I'll  never  want 
to  get  up.  When  my  femme  de  cJmmbre  brings  me  my 
morning  chocolate — set  out  on  a  silver  tray,  with  a  plate 
of  saffron  rolls  dusted  with  sugar  and  chopped  almonds 
— and,  yes,  a  few  currants — I'll  only  shake  my  sleepy 
head  at  her,  and  murmur — 'Go  away,  please.  Come  again 
another  day.'  She  will  drop  a  deep  curtsy — 'Madame!' 
I  won't  even  notice  her  as  she  trips  out  of  the  great  white 
doors,  in  a  flutter  of  annoyance  and  pink  ribbons." 

Ninon  shifted  her  position  on  the  straw  pallet  and 
displayed  her  little  foot  in  its  tattered  slipper. 

"What  a  treat  it  will  be,"  she  said,  "to  be  lazy  and 
warm.  I  am  nearly  always  cold  here.  I  expect  I  have 
got  a  poor  circulation.  My  mother  always  said  I  would 
live  to  regret  my  dislike  of  porridge."  Ninon  sighed.  "I 
wonder,  if  I'd  eaten  it  as  a  child,  whether  my  prudence 
would  have  kept  me  wann  now?" 

"Poor  darling,"  murmured  Terezia,  noticing  the  little 
duchess's  wan  cheeks.  "We  won't  stand  it  a  moment 
longer  than  we  can  help.  I  have  influential  friends  in  the 
outside  world.  When  men  fail,  women  must  act.  I  wish 
my  voice  could  pierce  these  thick  walls,  and  Robespierre's 
power.  We'll  send  him  packing  to  the  guillotine,  and 
every  mother's  heart  in  France  will  commend  him  to  the 
devil.     He  is  at  the  back  of  all  this  misery." 

Josephine  jumped  to  her  feet.  "Vive  I'Espoir!"  she 
called.  "Vive  I'Espoir!  Who  can  I  kiss.?  I  must  kiss 
someone.'* 

"Let's  dance,  it  will  keep  us  warm,"  said  Terezia.  Her 
eyes  were  shining;  her  cheeks  flushed;  her  lips  trembhng. 
She  looked  like  a  beautiful  fury.  Madame  d'Aiguillon 
looked  only  like  a  tired  young  girl,  in  need  of  a  set  of 
new  clothes  and  a  good  supper. 

When  presently  the  cell  door  opened  cautiously,  the 
ladies  were  busy  at  the  finishing  touches  of  their  evening 
toilet.  Josephine  was  always  late  for  the  dinner  call,  and 
the  turnkeys,  as   a  rule,  shuffled  her  in  front  of  them. 


TERROR  303 

regardless  of  whether  she  was  in  her  stays  and  petticoat, 
or  less.  Sometimes  they  made  vile  jests  on  her  appearance. 
To-night  the  ladieS  were  very  nearly  ready,  and  for- 
tune favored  them.  They  turned  and  faced  the  door, 
each  face  alight  with  eagerness.  Sometimes  "darling 
Joseph"  summoned  them  downstairs.  Joseph  never  came 
empty-handed.  If  he  had  nothing  else  to  give  them,  he'd 
bring  them  a  piece  of  news,  a  consoling  speech,  or  a  merry 
word. 

'"Joseph !" 
'  "Joseph !" 
"Joseph !" 
All  three  spoke  together. 

He  looked  a  very  different  person  from  the  fine  gentle- 
man who  had  forced  his  presence  (if  you  remember)  on 
Terezia  Carrabus,  the  evening  of  her  unlucky  arrival  in 
Paris. 

Here  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  door  (which  he 
presently  shut  carefully),  a  hideous  figure  of  depravity, 
wickedness  and  patriotism.  (A  pure  disguise,  of  course, 
for  his  Christian  intentions.)  A  red  patch,  like  blood, 
disfiiTured  liis  left  cheek.  His  hair  was  combed  as  the 
wind  combs  a  forsaken  nest.  His  clothes  were  unutterable ; 
his  jack-boots  steeped  in  mire — evil-smelling — his  grimy 
hands  held  a  grimy  lantern.  His  eyes  beamed  lovingly. 
His  bow  was  that  of  a  perfect  gentleman. 

Followed  by  the  fascinated  gaze  of  three  female  wor- 
shipers, he  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  fairly  large  parcel, 
a  very  small  letter,  and  a  loaf  of  bread,  which  he  offered 
to  the  ladies. 

The  ladies  fingered  the  bread  and  sniffed  at  it,  hardly 
believing  their  senses. 
"It  is  white,"  they  said. 
"It  is  warm,"  they  said. 
"It  is  delicious,"  they  said. 

"We  will  leave  the  parcel  until  later.  Too  much  happi- 
ness might  kill  us,"  said  the  practical  duchess. 


304  TORCHLIGHT 

*'Citoyen**  said  Josephine,  earnestly,  looking  fet  the 
frightful  man  opposite  her,  "God  will  reward  you." 

"Forgive  my  appearance  ladies.  But  here  we  must  all 
act,  and  dress  up  to  the  part  of  patriots,  if  we  are  to  be 
trusted.  In  other  words,  dirt,  brutality  and  insolence — 
all  make  good  marks.  I  am  anxious  to  stand  well  with 
the  prison  authorities." 

Terezia  did  not  listen  to  Joseph's  explanations.  She 
was  busy  reading  the  letter  he  had  given  to  her.  It  was 
from  Tallien. 

She  stood  close  to  the  barred  window;  her  hands  trem- 
bling, her  head  swimming. 

It  was  a  coward's  letter,  a  liar's  letter. 

Down  the  passage  the  slamming  of  doors,  and  the  vul- 
gar voices  of  the  jailers,  told  the  ladies  that  they  would 
get  no  dinner  if  they  didn't  hurry. 

Terezia  put  her  letter  in  her  pocket;  she  bit  her  lips 
and  looked  mulish.  "I  have  done  my  best  to  save  you, 
darling,"  he  wrote  (gushing  at  much  length).  .  .  .  "Be 
careful.  Better  not  write.  ..."  Terezia  made  up  her 
mind  she  would  write  to  Tallien  directly  after  dinner — 
a  good,  strong  letter.  She  had  prudently  smuggled  into 
prison  a  sufficiency  of  paper  and  ink. 

She  looked  at  Joseph.  He  would  see  to  the  safe  delivery 
of  her  message.  He  was  in  the  plot,  a  rough  plan  of 
action,  as  yet  immature,  but  extremely  suggestive  of  bril- 
liant results,  always  supposing  Tallien  would  act  in  self- 
defence.  She  would  efface  herself  and  emphasize  his  per- 
sonal danger.  Even  a  mongrel  leaps  to  bravery  in  his 
hour  of  need.     Tallien  would  act! 

"Joseph!     Are  you  there?" 
^  A  pasty-faced  warder  looked  in  at  Cell  306.     He  car- 
ried on  his  shoulder  a  narrow  and  extremely  uninviting- 
looking  mattress ;  in  places  it  was  thin  as  an  empty  b^ 
— ^in  others  lumpy  as  a  sack  of  potatoes. 

This  shock-headed  fellow  pushed  rudely  past  the  ladies 
and,  without  another  word  (except  a  lascivious  curse), 
he  seized  their  poor  bedding,  rolled  it  in  a  bundle  on  his 


TERROR  305 

sHoulders,  anH  flung  iclown  the  deplorable  substitute  on 
the  floor. 

*'Citoye7ik,"  said  Josephiiie  proudly,  '*what  are  {you 
doing?     We  will  keep  our  own  dirt,  if  you  please." 

"Can't  be  done.  You  are  only  two  in  here  to-night. 
Got  a  party  of  five  arrived  this  afternoon,  and  they'll 
have  to  have  the  larger  bed.  None  of  your  bluff,  Joseph, 
and  mind  your  own  business.'* 

Joseph  thought  fit  to  let  the  young  man  have  his  own 
way.    He  very  slowly  wiped  a  spot  of  grease  off  liis  lailtem. 

The  three  ladies  looked  at  each  other. 


CHAPTER    XL 

JOSEPHINE  held  up  her  petticoats  and  tripped  down 
the  winding  staircase  with  such  haste  that  Terezia 
and  Ninon  had  quite  a  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  her. 
The  stairs  were  very  steep,  very  dark,  and  very  dirty. 
Josephine  always  took  them  at  a  rush,  holding  her  precious 
handkerchief  to  her  nose.  She  always  entered  the  gloomy 
semi-darkness  of  the  dinlng-hall  with  some  little  remark 
to  the  effect  that  she  was  either  suffocating,  or  being 
poisoned,  or  dying  of  fright.  "B-rrr !  the  §mells  to-night, 
citoyennes!  All  the  rats  of  Les  Carmes  are  waiting  out- 
side for  tit-bits.  Yet  I  always  say  I'd  rather  meet  a 
hundred  live  rats  than  ten  dead  ones,  any  day." 

Josephine  was  popular.  Her  gaiety  was  infectious. 
All  her  friends  would  crowd  around  her.  "Amuse  us, 
cherie,"  they'd  say.  "For  ten  very  long  hours  we  haven't 
laughed."  Josephine  would  shake  her  head.  "And  I 
haven't  ceased  to  laugh  for  ten  minutes !  Life  Is  full  of 
amusement,"  she'd  say.  Madame  de  Beauharnais'  un- 
quenchable spirits  were  a  standing  joke  at  Les  Carmes, 
People  trembled  lest  her  name  should  appear  on  the  list. 
They  couldn't  afford  to  lose  her,  nor  her  wonderful 
audacity.     Fancy  played  with  Terror! 

They  were  all  playing  a  game,  a  game  of  good  man- 
ners, and,  above  all,  a  game  of  ignoring  unpleasant  facts. 
Otherwise  a  great  many  of  these  high-born  delicate  women 
would  have  cheated  the  guillotine.  They  would  have  suc- 
cumbed to  bad  food,  bad  air,  and  bad  language.  As  it 
was,  they  preferred  to  give  life  every  chance,  ignoring  the 
insolence  of  their  warders,  and  their  many  privations. 
There  is  no  plant  of  such  vigorous  growth  as  human  hope. 
Even  the  Lists  did  not  appal  them.  They  could  always 
idle — as  aristocrats.  (They  did  die  splendidly.)  God  was 
their  very  good  friend. 

306 


TERROR  307 

Josephine  rarely  expounded  her  theories  on  death — she 
much  preferred  to  dwell  on  life.  Yet,  if  the  subject  came 
uppermost,  she  always  evinced  proper  contempt  for  the 
canaille.  When  her  dearest  friends  stood  up  to  face  their 
last  ordeal,  she  invariably  clapped  her  little  hands — 
probably  quite  soundlessly — as  an  encouragement. 

"Good-bye,"  she'd  say — her  eyes  very  bright.  "W^ien 
you  arrive,  give  my  love  to  So-and-so."  (So-and-so  hav- 
ing left  their  select  company  maybe  a  week  or  two  ago — 
maybe  yesterday.  In  this  exquisite  stagnation  no  one 
remembered  dates.) 

Madame  de  Beauharnais'  lively  society  was  much  in 
request.  "Madame,  have  the  goodness  to  come  over  here 
— my  sister  is  greatly  depressed  this  evening.  She  cried 
all  last  night.  We  did  all  we  could  to  comfort  h&r,  but 
she  only  cried.   .  .  ." 

And  away  Josephine  would  rush,  maybe  leaving  her 
(dinner  to  get  cold  in  her  hurry  to  comfort  a  sufferer. 

This  evening  she  was  the  centre  of  interest  to  a  little 
coterie  who  had  selected  as  their  reception-room  the  left- 
hand  corner  of  the  big  room.  The  women  sat  very  close 
together  on  a  plank,  shiftily  placed  on  two  trestles,  their 
men-folk  standing  up  behind  them  against  the  horrible 
wall,  which  here  met  the  sloping  ceiling  at  a  very  low 
angle.  In  fact,  M.  le  marquis  de  Vielcoque — who  stood 
six  feet  three  in  his  stockings — leaned  his  unpowdered 
head  against  an  ancient  cross-beam,  mouldy  with  age,  and 
vermin  as  he  talked  with  Terezia  and  his  cousin,  Ninon 
d'Aiguillon. 

The  duchess  drooped  her  pretty  head  and  stirred,  with 
a  rough  wooden  spoon,  the  contents  of  her  tin  basin. 

"I  am  not  hungry  to-night,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  very  poor  light  in  the  great  hall,  but  the 
lall  marquis  could  quite  distinctly  see  that  his  cousin  was 
not  looking  herself.  She  was  strangely  flushed,  and  he 
remembered,  when  he  had  kissed  her  hand,  how  hot  it  had 
felt  to  his  lips. 

"You    are    not    sickening    for    measles,    or    anything, 


308  TORCHLIGHT 

Ninon?"  he  asked  quite  sternly.  He  was  geniiinely  fond 
of  Ninon,  but  she  was  a  silly  little  ^rl  for  all  that. 

The  duchess  sighed.  "Oh,  no,  Victor.  I  have  had  them. 
I  think  I  caught  cold  yesterday,  maybe  in  the  garden." 

He  looked  at  her  bare  shoulders.  "You  might  have 
borrowed  a  cloak." 

"I  might,  but  I  didn't,"  she  returned  meekly. 

Once  a  week  the  prisoners  were  taken  out,  in  batches 
of  a  hundred,  and  exercised  in  the  yard,  a  small  open  space 
surrounded  by  the  menacing  walls  of  the  old  prison,  and 
not  of  a  particularly  lively  aspect.  The  air,  though  com- 
paratively fresh,  was  still  very  tainted.  A  slaughter- 
house stood  close  by,  and  a  tannery,  whose  very  name 
made  the  aristocratic  ladies  feel  uncomfortable,  where 
operations  were  carried  on  in  a  gloomy  building,  the  chim- 
neys of  which  could  be  seen,  taking  up  an  unfair  propor- 
tion of  the  visible  blue  sky.  Ninon  had  once  been  out  on 
a  winter  night  when  the  snow  had  covered  the  filthy  yard, 
a  fresh,  clear,  cold  winter  night.  As  an  attractive  jest 
the  jailers  in  charge  had  aroused  some  of  the  prisoners, 
and  marched  them  out  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  From 
the  guard-house,  behind  a  handsome  fire  of  logs,  the  men 
had  watched  the  ill-clad  "denounced"  parade  the  exercise- 
ground,  marching  after  each  other  in  regulation  single 
file  .  .  .  ten  times  forwards — right  about  turn,  ten  times 
backwards  .  .  .  this  was  to  prevent  giddiness.  The  court 
was  circular,  and  so  high  were  the  walls  it  resembled  an 
enonnous  funnel.  Above  was  the  starlit  sky.  It  had 
been  a  miraculous  night.  All  the  prisoners  had  been  vis- 
ibly delighted  by  this  unusual  favor.  The  ribald  laughter 
of  the  jailers  died  away,  as  their  gorgeous  fire,  leaping 
less  high,  smouldered  down  to  glowing  cinders.  Their  jest 
had  miscarried.  Why,  the  devil !  the  accursed  aristocrats 
were  pleased,  whereas  they  ought  to  have  shuddered,  if 
they  had  been  at  all  natural!  Sulkily  the  head  jailer — 
our  friend,  Mr.  Dignity — sounded  his  horn.  In  five  min- 
utes the  stars,  shining  over  Les  Cannes,  were  left  without 
a  single  worshiper. 


TERROR  309 

Ninon  remembered  that  night's  exceeding  beauty,  though 
her  ridiculous  white  satin  shoes  came  home,  to  Cell  306, 
none  the  better  for  an  hour's  tramp  in  the  snow-slush. 

Terezia  Carrabus,  in  all  the  glory  of  her  "sensible" 
dress  and  her  fresh  coloring,  looked  quite  vulgar  beside 
Ninon.  If  M.  le  marquis  had  been  less  of  a  gentleman 
and  more  of  a  poet,  he  would  certainly,  in  a  peevish  spirit 
of  jealousy  (as  we  have  said,  he  was  very  fond  of  the 
little  Ninon),  have  likened  her  to  an  opulent  cabbage  rose 
flaunting  in  the  same  bowl  as  a  handful  of  pale  lilies.  The 
marquis  was  a  gentleman,  but  not  a  poet.  He  could  not 
help  admiring  Terezla's  appearance.  The  solid  dignity 
of  her  dress  and  the  \4vid  beauty  of  her  healthy  face  im- 
pressed him  very  favorably.  She  was  an  amazing  picture 
of  unconquerable  vitality.  .  .  .  Her  name  could  never 
stand  on  the  List.     Never! 

"Monsieur?" 

"Madame?" 

Terezia  held  out  her  tin  basin,  the  marquis  bowed,  took 
it  from  her  hands  and  walked  across  the  unutterable  floor, 
placing  the  bowl  on  a  tray  heaped  with  similar  bowls, 
battered,  dirty,  and  all  more  or  less  untouched. 

There  were  occasions  when  no  one  had  any  appetite 
at  Les  Cannes.  Rabbit  soup  was  a  questionable  dish. 
What  were  the  ingredients?  It  wasn't  etiquette  to  ask 
questions  at  Les  Carmes — except,  of  course,  queries  which 
politeness  exacted.  "Have  you  slept  well,  madame?'*  "I 
hope,  monsieur,  your  cold  is  better?"  "You  mil  repeat 
that  delightful  song?"  "Mademoiselle,  how  do  you  manage 
to   look   so    charming?"      *'And   you,   madame,   by   what 

miracle  of  grace "     They  were  hardly  questions,  but 

dear  old  platitudes  which  never  grow  stale.  A  kind 
thought,  a  kind  compliment,  a  kind  smile — be  they  ever 
so  hollow — are  worth  a  lexicon  of  honest  opinion  not  so 
pleasantly  framed. 

Nothing  was  allowed  to  mar  the  dinner  hour.  In  that 
strange,  rather  pathetic  assembly  everyone  seemed,  if  not 


310  TORCHLIGHT 

happj'^,  at  least  lazily  content.  (Every  woman  present 
was  more  or  less  thankful  for  the  blessed  darkness.) 

Josephine  spread  out  her  tattered  skirts — sitting  at  the 
further  end  of  the  crowded  bench — as  if  they  had  been 
very  superior  garments.  Her  gay  voice,  musical  as  a 
bell,  was  easily  distinguishable  above  the  whispers  of  the 
general  company.  She  faced  a  dim  lantern,  standing  on 
the  soiled  table,  at  her  right.  Her  pale,  mobile  face 
looked  delicate  as  a  cameo — a  little  knot  of  black  velvet 
at  her  throat;  her  russet  hair  drawn  back  from  her  fore- 
head, partly  hiding  her  ears.  Her  beautiful  eyes  were 
warm  with  sympathy  and  attention ;  she  was  listening  to 
one  of  old  Madame  de  Rochenoire's  very  old  stories. 
Josephine  had  heard  it  many  times  before,  but  her  inter- 
est never  failed.  She  held  the  old  lady*s  fragile  hand  in 
a  friendly  grasp. 

"Really !"    said    Josephine.      "How   astonishing  !...'* 

A  bell  clanged  sombrely. 

An  indefinable  change  came  over  that  well-trained 
assembly.  If  possible,  the  ladies  drew  a  little  closer  to 
each  other.  The  men  stood  at  attention.  Every  eye  was 
turned  towards  the  barred  doors.  Fate  was  standing 
outside.  Fate  in  the  hideous  shape  of  a  callous  man,  who 
carried  an  official  list  in  his  hand.  Sometimes  it  was 
shorter — sometimes  longer.  When  he  had  read  it  he 
marched  out,  passive  as  a  malignant  shadow.  Some- 
times he  blew  out  the  lantern  he  carried  suspended  on  his 
chest  by  a  leather  trap — sometimes  he  forgot. 

He  marched  out  behind  a  selected  number  of  victims. 
Each  had  answered  to  his  or  her  name.  Each  had  taken 
an  affectionate  if  necessarily  short  farewell  of  their  nearest 
and  dearest,  and  bowed  gracefully  to  the  general  company. 

It  was  all  very  orderly,  very  formal,  very  heartbreaking. 
Yet  not  a  murmur,  not  a  protest,  scarcely  a  tear.   .  .   . 

When  all  had  passed  beyond,  the  great  door  shut. 

The  new-comer  took  up  his  position,  in  front  of  the 
table  which  stretched  across  one  end  of  the  room. 


TERROR  311 

The  master-cook,  wlio  had  ladled  out  his  appetizing 
soup,  and  who  had  only  laughed  when  the  plates  came 
back  practically  untasted,  rapped  his  shining  carving- 
knife  on  the  splashed  boards,  and  laughed  until  the  tears 
poured  down  his  sooty,  sweating  cheeks. 

He  always  waited  for  the  reading  of  the  Lists.  He  was 
rather  new  to  the  place — and,  so  far,  he  had  betted 
rather  successfully  on  the  evening's  selections.  He  gave 
Joseph  a  sly  glance.     Joseph  always  lost  his  money. 

Joseph  returned  his  wink  in  a  breezy,  familiar  style. 
In  public  Joseph  earned  his  good  marks  with  those  in 
authority  at  quite  an  alarming  rate.  He  would  tickle 
the  warders'  gross  humor  by  a  display  of  wit  still  grosser. 
He  Avould  cap  their  insults  by  blasphemy,  laugh  in  the 
ladies  faces,  snap  his  fingers  under  the  very  noses  of  the 
gentlemen,  blunder  upon  sacred  confidences. 

Sometimes,  as  a  slight  reward  for  such  rollicking  fun, 
Joseph  was  allowed  to  read  the  List. 

The  room  was  always  intensely  quiet  when  Joseph — 
after  a  preliminary  word  or  two — began  to  read.  He  did 
it  so  inimitably.  The  warders  would  nudge  each  other 
and  shrug  their  shoulders ;  the  prisoners  would  watch  his 
depraved  countenance  with  great,  startled,  hopeful  eyes. 
He  was  a  shocking  bad  hand  at  deciphering  writing.  One 
might  almost  imagine,  to  cover  his  ignorance,  he  intro- 
duced fancy  names — "Citoyen  Grasshopper!  Who  an- 
swers to  the  name  of  Citoyen  Cockrobin  Grasshopper?" 
No  one.  There  was  not  such  a  name  on  that  particular 
night  at  least  at  Les  Carmes.  So  Joseph  erased  the  name 
off  the  fatal  list.  "Died  of  fever,"  he  said  casually.  No 
one  laughed.  Then  he  would  call  maybe  for  Mrs.  Chair- 
back,  Mr.  Dishcover,  Miss  Mittens  and  Miss  Ribbon-tie 
— or  any  other  fantastic  combination  of  empty  sound. 
.  .  .  No  one  laughed.  The  ladies  might  breathe  a  shade 
deeper,  and  their  eyes  might  glow  with  tears  or  laughter 
— who  knows?     (Anyhow,  they  are  closely  related.) 

He'd  do  brilliantly  for  a  time,  but  even  Joseph  could  not 
save  them  all.     Now  and  again  his  summons  was  quickly 


312  TORCHLIGHT 

answered.  "Citoyen,  ci-derant  comte  Henri  de  Dedai- 
geux!"  And  immediately  some  elegant  gentleman  would 
stand  clea^  of  the  little  crowd,  and  answer  to  his  name 
with  calm  politeness. 

Joseph  would  ask  him  to  join  his  fellow-prisoners,  who 
were  to  be  brought  up  for  their  trial  on  the  following 
morning. 

To-night  Joseph  was  not  allowed  any  privileges.  The 
man  who  held  the  sheet  of  stiff  parchment  had  refused  to 
part  with  it.  "None  of  your  horse-play,"  he  said  roughly 
— as  Joseph  offered  to  reheve  him  of  his  trouble. 

It  seemed  as  if  a  tinge  of  melancholy  fell  on  the  com- 
pany. Even  one  or  two  of  the  warders  spat  angrily  on  the 
floor.  "It  is  getting  beyond  a  joke,"  one  big  man  mur- 
mured audibly.  "Blast  my  tongue,  but  I'm  sick  to  death 
of  blood." 

The  aristocrats,  even  though  hope  burned  very  low  in 
their  hearts,  smiled  gently. 

The  man  read  out  a  goodly  number  of  names — some  of 
them  very  distinguished.  The  little  group,  gathering  by 
the  great  door,  seemed  to  expand  at  an  alarming  rate. 

"Quicker  there!"  said  the  surly  official.  "I'm  in  a 
hurry  to-night." 

*'Au  revoir,  madame,"  said  the  tall  marquis,  bowing  to 
T^rezia.    "I've  been  charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

Terezia  held  out  her  hand.  *'Au  revoir,  monsieur,"  she 
said,  dully.     Surely  it  was  all  a  hideous  dream. ^^ 

Ninon,  who  had  risen,  was  looking  up  at  her  handsome 
cousin  in  a  bewildered  manner.  She  had  a  thousand  mes- 
sages to  give  him,  only  she  couldn't  remember  them. 

"Take  care  of  yourself,"  he  said,  turning  towards  her. 
"My  love  to  the  babies.  I  promised  Ninette  a  doll — get 
her  one,  will  you?  And  this  little  ring,  wUl  you  wear  it, 
Ninon,  sometimes.''" 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Ninon,  slipping  the 
marquis's  ring  on  her  finger. 

"Citoyenne,  veuve  Roche-noire !" 


TERROR  313 

Josephine  helped  the  old  lady  to  rise,  and  kissed  her 
with  great  tenderness. 

'*Au  revoir,  madame.  Here  is  your  scarf.  A  thousand 
thanks  for  all  your  kindness." 

"Citoyenne,  ci-devant  duchesse  Ninon  d'Aiguillon !" 

"Wait  a  moment,  Victor,"  called  the  little  duchess. 
"We  are  going  out  together.  .  .  .  Don't  cry,  Terezia. 
Take  care  of  Josephine.  .  .  ." 

Terezia  rushed  forward  tall  and  tragic.  "It's  a  mis- 
take," she  called  loudly — "a  hideous  mistake!" 

Joseph,  who  had  been  looking  over  his  confrere's  shoul- 
der, snatched  roughly  at  the  list. 

"Dunder-headed  ass !"  he  said,  savagely.  "Where  are 
your  spectacles?  Can't  you  read  properly?  I'll  report 
you  for  inattention  to  duty.  They'll  snap  your  head  off 
like  a  dry  twig — you  bloody  fool!" 

The  man  glared. 

"Read  for  yourself!  I'll  denounce  you  to-morrow  for 
complicity  in  crime!" 

Joseph  bawled  without  the  least  hesitation: 

"  'Citoyenne,  ci-devant  dowager  duchesse  d'Aiguillon !' 
Criminal !  Would  you  condemn  a  suspected  woman  rather 
than  own  up  that  you  didn't  go  to  school?" 

The  master-cook  gaped.  He  had  lost  five  francs. 
"There's  some  mischief  at  the  bottom  of  this,"  he  said. 

"It  is  all  one  to  me,"  said  the  turnkey  surlily,  with  a 
frightful  oath.  "Have  it  your  own  way.  Come  on,  you 
skittish  dowager !" 

Here  a  pock-marked  jailer  stepped  forward. 

"Cell  162.     She  is  dead,"  he  said.     "Buried  last  week." 

Josephine  clapped  her  little  hands. 


CHAPTER    XLI 

'  I  ^HE  old  prisons  of  Paris  have  long  since  passed  into 
•*■  the  annals  of  uglj  tradition.  Les  Cannes,  La  Force, 
Le  Temple,  not  to  mention  the  historic  Bastille,  which  the 
dawn  of  the  Revolution  sacrificed  to  the  spirit  of  revolt, 
— all  have  been  razed  to  the  ground. 

Many  times  did  Robespierre  regret  the  destruction  of 
the  Bastille.  He  could  have  filled  it  many  times  over. 
Alas,  in  June,  1794,  Paris  was  a  hot-bed  of  vice,  sedition, 
and  terrible  menace  to  the  delicate,  new-bom  State — 
freslily  calendared,  freshly  named,  nursed  by  a  demi-god 
in  blue  clothes. 

It  was  quite  difiicult  to  find  accommodation  for  these 
wicked  people.  Sex  was  no  hindrance  to  unspeakable  plot- 
ting. Youth  was  no  bar  to  soDed  lips,  infamous  with 
intolerable  language.  Quite  young  girls,  well-brought-up 
girls,  girls  who  ought  to  have  known  better,  had  been  heard 
(and  very  properly  denounced)  pitying  a  class  which  had 
gone  under — a  class  which  no  longer  existed  in  France! 
Only  their  shadow  remained,  to  cast,  as  it  were,  a  golden 
halo  at  the  feet  of  Robespierre.  In  his  own  imagination 
he  towered  over  the  Jacobins  as  a  full  moon  illumines 
the  night. 

In  that  blessed  month  of  June,  Robespierre  reached  the 
summit  of  his  ambition.  Fear  and  love,  joining  hands, 
worshiped  him.  Fear  controlled  love  —  though  he,  ten- 
derly, gave  precedence  to  love. 

In  the  happy  month  of  June  Robespierre  was  often 
troubled  by  insomnia.  He  was  continually  fighting 
shadows.  They  crept  around  his  narrow  bed,  and  gath- 
ered around  the  night-lamp  emitting  dim  pink  lights 
through  a  ruby  globe.     The  lamp  was  suspended  to  the 

314 


TERROR  315 

ceiling  of  the  alcove  by  thin  gilt  chains  and  hung  directly 
over  his  head.  At  most  times  the  tinted  light  fell  on  his 
inquiring  face. 

From  sleep  he  did  not  hope  for  forget  fulness.  Sleep 
visited  him  in  the  watches  of  dreams,  tainted  as  the  lives 
of  those  wicked  people  he  was  trying  to  exterminate. 

Many  of  the  dead  visited  him  under  the  ruby  lamp 
(which  burnt  until  daylight),  and  scoffed  at  him.  He 
could  hear  them  laugh  and  jeer,  and  treat  him  with  ig- 
nominy. "You  man!"  they  said.  "You  little  coward- 
man!  You  are  not  a  god!  Sky-blue  clothes  don't  trans- 
figure guilty  flesh  into  divinity!  In  sin  you  were  born, 
in  sin  you  will  die.  .  .   ." 

And  the  voices  of  the  mocking  dead  (so  recently  alive) 
pricked  him  as  the  touch  of  steel.  He  would  wake  and* 
stare  beyond  the  ruby  lamp — in  a  cold  sweat  of  terror — 
he  had  meant  well!  He  had  meant  to  cleanse  France! 
To  leave  a  white  corner  on  earth,  furnished  with  great 
love  and  greater  discernment.  ...  If  your  right  hand 
offends  you,  cut  it  off!  It  was  a  sound  doctrine.  In  the 
old  days  the  prophets  had  spoken,  when  Jove  roamed  the 
earth  in  flames  of  celestial  fire.  .  .  .  Jehovah,  before  him, 
had  wiped  the  world  clean  of  ancient  abominations.  .  .   . 

Robespierre  would  sit  up  in  bed — his  crumpled  sheets 
horridly  damp — his  nightshirt  open  on  his  hairy  chest — 
his  glittering  eyes  filled  with  the  madness  of  creation.  .  .   . 

"God  of  Israel !"  he  would  cry.  "I  am  Thy  chosen 
instrument!  I  will  purify  France!  Love  me,  God!  for 
love  is  good !" 

So  he  babbled,  drunk  with  achievement  and  swollen  with 
pride.  He  was  convinced  that  in  his  little  ague-stricken 
frame  true  power  and  greatness  dwelt.  From  regenerated 
France  his  mind,  circling  the  living  world,  leaped  in  one 
bound  to  a  regenerated  earth.  He  was  greater  than 
Alexander,  greater  than  Caesar,  greater  than  Charlemagne. 
.  .  .  He  had  overthrown  monarchy  and  raised  the  people 
to  their  rightful  status.  He  saw  the  surface  of  his  world 
neatly  parceled  into  little  holdings  of  equal  value,  and 


316  TORCHLIGHT 

destitution  and  hunger  and  slavery  vanishing  before  jus- 
tice, as  night  mists  vanish  before  the  morning  sun.   .  .   . 

Yet  the  dead  laughed  aloud.  They  would  circle  round 
his  narrow  bed  and  laugh.  He  recognized  grinning  faces 
which  once  had  been  pleasant  faces — faces  of  friends  de- 
nounced ;  faces  of  enemies  traduced ;  faces  of  utter  strang- 
ers, done  to  death — an  astonishing  gathering  of  mocking 
spirits,  all  of  whom  he  had  hounded  out  of  life,  to  satisfy 
his  own  lustful  policy. 

Robespierre  would  gnash  his  teeth  in  impotent  rage, 
and  mutter  words. 

"The  innocent  shall  suffer  for  the  guilty  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generation." 

A  smile  would  light  his  weary  eyes.  He  was  justified 
in  his  actions,  more  than  justified! 

Once,  as  in  a  dream  dimly,  he  saw  an  ornate,  stately 
carriage,  swung  on  high  springs,  rolling  along  the  king's 
high-road,  furnished  with  liveried  servants  and  richly 
caparisoned  horses.  There  were  ten  horses  and  ten  ser- 
vants ministering  to  the  pride  of  a  feeble  peer  of  France. 
He  remembered  the  popinjay  inside  his  swinging  carriage, 
swaying  with  the  easy  springs  as  the  great  wheels  rolled 
over  an  obstruction  on  the  public  road.  The  horses  had 
floundered  into  a  ^roup  of  peasant  children — knocking 
some  over,  killing  others.  Neither  horses,  nor  flunkeys, 
nor  lord  had  been  inconvenienced  by  the  incident. 

"Revenge!"  he'd  cried,  "unto  the  third  and  fourth 
generation !" 

He  would  twist  his  blistered  tongue  over  his  cracked 
lips  and  howl  at  the  impotent  shadows.  Dawn  was  ever 
an  immense  distance  off.  He  would  choke  with  the  terror 
he  had  evoked.  ...  It  struck  him  with  hideous  certainty 
that  the  people's  condition,  on  the  whole,  had  not  materi- 
ally improved.  Hunger  still  stalked  in  Paris,  precisely 
as  it  had  done  in  the  old  days  prior  to  the  revolution. 
And  unrest.  And  thanklessness.  And  bitter  envy.  And 
sorrow.  ,  .  .  Yet   he  had   touched   the   heart   of  Hope. 


TERROR  317 

.    .    .    His    conscience    was    as    clear    as    an    untainted 
brook.   .   .  . 

On  this  comfortable  reflection,  he  would  fall  asleep  to 
be  visited  bj  dreams. 

It  was  on  the  following  Monday,  Decadi,  20th  Prairial 
(8th  June,  old  style),  that  Citoyen  Tallien  was  disturbed, 
just  as  he  was  going  to  the  executions,  by  an  unwelcome 
visit  from  Joseph. 

He  looked  at  his  big  gold  watch  and  rattled  all  the 
multitude  of  seals  and  ornaments  hanging  to  the  massive 
gold  chain,  in  a  peevish  spirit  of  impatience  at  this  un- 
timely interruption  to  his  agreeable  duties.  Joseph  was 
a  good  fellow,  no  doubt,  and  brave,  and  all  that,  but  he 
was  apt  to  worry  Tallien.  The  very  sight  of  this  man — 
discreetness  itself — made  him  realize  uncomfortably — the 
predicament  of  his  mistress.  Of  course  it  was  not  agree- 
able for  her  (poor  darling)  to  be  shut  up  at  Les  Cannes, 
in  daily  expectation  of  her  trial  and  subsequent  execution. 
It  was  a  miracle  she  was  still  alive,  considering  Robes- 
pierre's business-like  methods.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Tallien  had  had  to  walk  very  circumspectly  to  avert  sus- 
picion falling  on  himself.  He  had  let  the  weeks  slip  past 
— at  heart  furiously  angry  at  Terezia's  imprisonment, 
but  outwardly  complacently  "just." 

To  be  just  is  always  a  very  excellent  quality  in  a  man, 
and  it  was  particularly  so  in  Prairial,  1794. 

"I'll  see  him,"  said  Tallien,  to  his  servant  Pierre — a 
discreet  person. 

"Very  good,  citoyen,'* 

The  man  placed  Tallien's  silver-braided  hat  and  a  pair 
of  yellow  chamois  gloves  (old-fashioned  skins)  on  his 
dressing-table. 

At  that  moment  the  buhl  clock  on  the  mantelpiece 
struck  half-past  ten. 

Tallien  yawned,  flicked  out  the  folds  of  a  clean  linen 
handkerchief  and  blew  his  nose. 

He  was  feeling  tired  after  yesterday's   orgy.     It  had 


318  TORCHLIGHT 

been  a  tawdry  show,  on  the  whole,  and,  as  the  Supreme 
Being,  Robespierre  (for  all  his  fine  clothes)  had  struck 
a  false  note,  the  statue  of  Wisdom,  in  spite  of  its  mon- 
strous size,  had  looked  unconvincing  and  ludicrous.  Even 
the  fireworks  had  refused  to  go  off.  There  had  been  a 
crowd,  certainly,  a  yelling,  excited,  shabby  crowd,  but  the 
Supreme  Being  had  not  attracted  the  best  people  to  his 
initial  birthday  party.  Truth  to  tell,  he  had  cut  a  su- 
premely ridiculous  figure. 

Tallien  yawned  again.  He  could  only  spare  Joseph  a 
moment.  The  guillotine  had  been  shifted  from  the  Place 
de  la  Revolution  to  the  suburbs  of  Saint  Antoine,  to  please 
the  Republic — the  finicky  Republic  which  no  longer  loved 
the  sight  of  tumbrils  in  the  elegant  quarters  of  the  city. 

Robespierre,  instead  of  cutting  off  the  heads  of  these 
sensitive  plants,  quietly  gave  in  to  them.  For  the  last 
month  or  so  the  guillotine  had  rolled  round  Paris  like  a 
threshing  machine  traveling  from  farm  to  farm.  It  was 
tiresome  for  the  sightseers,  sometimes  necessitating  long 
journeys,  and  always  hindering  operations.  There  were 
over  twelve  thousand  prisoners  in  Paris  waiting  their 
turn. 

Talhcn  felt  aggrieved  and  cross,  and,  yes,  nervous.  The 
Supreme  Being  had  treated  him  with  scant  courtesy  last 
night.  What  an  intolerable  little  bounder  he  was,  with  his 
jargon  of  godship  and  liis  painted  face  and  his  glib 
tongue,  coated  with  lies ! 

"My  dear  Joseph,"  said  Tallien,  "shut  the  door,  please. 
I  hate  draughts.  Besides,  one  can't  be  too  careful.  Be 
thankful  you  escaped  that  ridiculous  exhibition  last  night. 
Robespierre  is  the  biggest  fool  in  Paris — and  the  most 
careful." 

Joseph  came  over  to  Tallien  and  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"What  are  you  staring  at?"  asked  that  worthy  fret- 
fully. 

"I  was  wondering  how  long  you  intend  to  sit  still  with 
your  hands  folded." 

Tallien  drummed  his  fingers  on  the  table.     "Sit  down." 


TERROR  319 

Joseph  accepted  his  invitation.  "You  have  got  the 
chance  of  doing  a  big  thing." 

"It  is  too  risky." 

"It  is  quite  worth  your  while." 

*'My  dear  fellow,  ten  per  cent,  of  the  people  howling 
round  Robespierre  last  night  stiU  beHeved  in  hira." 

"Denounce  him." 

Tallien's  upper  lip  quivered.  His  big  eyes  stared  at 
Joseph's  clean  face  and  clean  coat  without  noticing  the 
extraordinary  change  in  his  appearance. 

The  fact  was  that  Joseph  was  on  his  way  to  see  his 
mother,  if  you  remember  the  old  lady  who  didn't  believe 
in  the  Revolution — and  consequently  he  had  put  on  his 
best  clothes  and  his  most  guileless  manner.  His  mother 
would  kiss  him,  and  ask  after  his  health,  his  work  and 
his  amusements,  and  Joseph  would,  of  course,  satisfy  her 
on  every  point.  Then  they  would  talk  of  his  soldier 
brother,  who  served  under  General  Bonaparte.  And  he 
would  drink  three  cups  of  his  mother's  excellent  coffee. 
.  .  .  Joseph  wondered  if  her  roses  were  doing  well.  He 
felt  in  his  pocket  to  reassure  himself  that  he  had  not 
forgotten  a  packet  of  Essler's  noted  fly-killer,  wliich  his 
mother,  on  his  last  visit,  had  particularly  requested  him 
to  bring  her.  She  had  heard  excellent  reports  about  this 
preparation,  and  had  said  that  she  would  like  to  give  it  a 
trial  if  it  wasn't  too  expensive.  Joseph  had  assured  her 
it  was  quite  cheap.  And  his  mother  had  answered  him, 
smiling  at  him  from  her  comfortable  arm-chair,  that  she 
for  her  part  liked  to  keep  pace  with  the  times. 

"It  is  a  competitive  age,"  she  had  observed,  "such  that 
I,  in  my  little  corner,  am  seriously  aware  of  it."  She 
was  alluding  to  the  suicidal  price  of  groceries.   .   .  . 

Tallien  looked  at  his  elegant  boots  with  moody  distaste. 

"Denounce !  Denounce !"  he  said.  "All  very  well  for 
you  to  talk!  It  Is  very  easy  to  bell  the  cat,  in  the  ab- 
stract.    A  charming  proposition !" 

"It  is  more  than  charming.  Brace  yourself  together, 
man.     There  are  more  than  twelve  thousand '* 


320  TORCHLIGHT 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!  Who  cares  a  damn  for  those 
beastly  whining  prisoners? — a  jumble  lot;  some  of  them 
the  very  dregs  of  Paris." 

"Citoyenne  Carrabus  among  them.  By  the  way,  she 
seems  annoyed  at  your  dilatory  behavior." 

"She  never  possessed  a  shred  of  patience." 

"I  wonder." 

"Well,  of  course,  I  own  she  is  suffering  hardships  at 
present,  and  bearing  them  very  well,  too.  Anyhow,  she 
has  the  assurance  of  my  love  and  consideration." 

"Yes." 

''Love  is  everything  to  a  woman."  Tallien  smiled  com- 
placently. "She  is,  on  the  whole,  a  lucky  little  woman. 
How  is  she  looking.?" 

"Pale." 

"Does  she  keep  up  her  spirits?" 

"Her  indignation  against  you  acts  very  beneficially." 

"She  is  very  beautiful.  You  know,  I  saved  her  life  at 
Bordeaux " 

"Won't  help  her  in  this  case " 

"My  dear  Joseph,  I  intend  to  help  her.  Haven't  I 
risked  a  great  deal  in  writing  to  her?  Seriously,  I  am 
very  attached  to  the  citoyeuTie.  There  are  heaps  of  pretty 
women  in  Paris,  but  no  one  has  Terezia's  charm.  The 
day  they  kill  her  I  shall  go  mad,  raving  mad !" 

"A  monkey  can  only  climb  to  the  top  of  the  tree,  and 
climb  down  again — or  fall.     One  monkey  fell  yesterday." 

"Ha,  ha !"  laughed  Tallien.  "I  rather  thought  he  over- 
did it  myself.  Those  disgustin*  speeches,  and  his  flapping 
arms — like  windmills — and  his  screechin'  laughter.  I  tell 
you  he  roared  like  a  mad  bull !" 

Tallien  rose  and  stalked  about  the  room.  Then  he 
turned  and  faced  Joseph. 

**If  I  succeed  I  expect  a  handsome  reward,"  he  said. 

*'An  easy  conscience,  sir,  and  the  gratitude " 

"Fiddlesticks !" 

*'If  you  prefer  the  substance  to  the  shadow,  let's  say  a 
dictatorship.    Power  in  the  right  hand- 


5> 


TERROR  321 

Tallien  opened  his  mouth  wide. 

"There  is  something  very  noble  in  self-sacrifice,"  he 
said. 

Joseph  lowered  his  voice. 

"Any  delay  is  criminal." 

"Be  assured  of  my  deepest  sympathy  for  all  concerned." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I'll  pass  round  the  word  at  Les 
Carmes.  The  lists  get  longer  every  night.  Fever  rages. 
Many  cases  of  madness,  not  to  mention  overcrowding. 
Also  the  sanitary  conditions  might  be  improved,  not  to 
mention  the  food." 

Tallien  approached  his  visitor. 

"I  sent  her  chocolates  last  week.  I  am  always  getting 
a  letter  through.  Tell  her,"  he  whispered,  "Tallien  will 
do  his  duty." 

"Every  minute  counts." 

"Next  week  Robespierre  lays  his  new  legislative  bill 
before  the  House.  It'll  be  the  finishing  touch  as  far  as 
his  popularity  is  concerned.  We  like  to  deal  with  men, 
not  gods.  As  a  god  he  is  a  mistake.  A  little  human  god 
who  fancies  himself  celestial.  It  can't  be  done,  sir.  It  is 
bad  taste,  damned  bad  taste.'* 

TaUien  had  worked  himself  up  into  a  very  agreeable 
frame  of  mind.  He  walked  over  jauntily  to  his  dressing- 
table,  laden  with  different  perfumes  and  cosmetics ;  select- 
ing a  bottle  of  his  favorite  carnation  scent  he  sprayed  his 
person  liberally. 

"Delicious,"  he  murmured,  "delicious." 

"Think  it  over." 

"  'Pon  my  word,  it  is  never  out  of  my  mind." 

"You're  a  brave  man,  Tallien." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  By  the  way  have  you  heard  the 
latest  proof  of  our  dear  god's  dwindling  courage.''" 

"Yes — no.     It  does  not  interest  me." 

"Don't  be  so  unkind !  Two  nights  ago  he  took  supper 
with  the  Delaines.  Report  has  it  that  he  was  engaged  to 
Mile.  Rosalie — a  charming  young  girl.  He  drank  more 
than  was  good  for  him.     He  talked  in  a  gay  confidential 


322  TORCHLIGHT 

tone.  He  kissed  them  all  round — aU  the  family  were 
present.  The  following  morning  ce  cJier  Robespierre 
regretted  his  geniality.  What  had  he  said?  It  worried 
him.     Guess  what  he  did." 

Joseph  looked  at  his  watch.  *'I  can't  conceive,"  he 
said  indifferently. 

"He  denounced  the  whole  family,  had  'em  brought  up 
for  trial  that  very  same  morning,  and  executed  within 
twenty-four  hours." 

"Splendid !" 

"Hard  luck  on  old  friends,  eh.'"' 

"Extremely  lucky  for  us.  Just  you  let  that  little  story 
circulate." 

Talhen  rubbed  his  hands  joyfully.  "He  hasn't  a  leg  to 
stand  on." 

"Any  fool  could  knock  him  down,**  said  Joseph.  "Think 
it  over,  valiant  sir!"  His  eyes  were  lazily  insolent.  "I 
must  be  going.  I  have  got  an  important  appointment  at 
eleven  sharp.     You  won't  forget  this  evening?" 

"No,"  said  TaUien.  "I  won't  forget,  but  I  don't  half 
like  it.     It  is  a  big  risk." 

"Terrific." 

"Wait  a  minute,  Joseph.     Does  she  expect  me?" 

"Women  are  fools,  you  know,  especially  women  in 
love " 

Tallien  smiled  engagingly.  "I'll  come,"  he  said.  "Tell 
her  I  won't  disappoint  her.  Joseph — here,  wait  a  mo- 
ment— I  love  that  woman.  I'd  do  any  mortal  thing  to 
please  her." 

Joseph  had  vanished.  In  his  place,  on  the  polished 
table  he  had  left  a  small  parcel,  wrapp€d  in  soiled  news- 
paper and  tied  with  grayish  tape. 

Tallien  first  bit  his  nails,  and  then  he  slowly  untied  the 
parcel — holding  it  at  a  safe  distance.  By  some  queer 
jugglery  of  thought  he  remembered  Cleopatra  and  her 
famous  asps.  Prudence  seldom  poisons  a  man.  Sus- 
picion was  rife  in  Paris,  and  Tallien  was  the  soul  of  pre- 
caution. 


TERROR  323 

He  snapped  open  the  lid  of  an  oblong  leather  case  lined 
■with  faded  green  velvet.  It  contained  neither  asp  nor 
jcorpion,  but  a  pretty  little  toy  dagger  with  a  chased  gold 
handle  coquettishly  tied  with  a  knot  of  pink  ribbon.  Tal- 
lien  remembered  vaguely  having  seen  it  in  Terezia's  hands, 
her  jewel-laden,  soft  white  hands.  The  thought  put  him 
in  a  pensive  mood.  .  .  .  She  was  a  very  charming  woman, 
passionate  and  warm,  loving  (at  times)  and  sensible  of 
his  virtues  .  .  .  he'd  like  to  reward  her. 

He  gently  took  out  the  dagger  and  passed  the  bright 
steel  blade  smoothly  over  his  cheek. 

Here  was  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish.  What  did  she  take 
him  for.?  .  .  .  He  was  not  a  hired  assassin — no,  no!  but 
a  prudent,  careful  young  man. 

In  moving  the  dagger  he  discovered  that  the  case  con- 
tained a  scrap  of  paper.  He  unfolded  it  and  read  the 
following  message  penned  by  Terezia:  *^Act,  act!  For 
God's  sake,  act!     Terezia" 

He  shivered — half  in  pleasure,  half  in  fear.  What  an 
audacious  darling.    A  wicked  little  murderess — eh?  Ha-ha ! 

Even  in  his  own  ears  his  laugh  sounded  insincere.  He 
passed  liis  hand  over  his  lips  and  looked  cautiously  about 
him.  Pierre — his  man — was  very  inquisitive.  Best  to  say 
nothing.  Best  to  lock  up  that  foolish  little  toy  (which 
he  promptly  did).     The  letter  he  slipped  into  his  pocket. 

He  stopped  before  the  long  mirror — we  have  said  that 
his  rooms  were  luxuriouslv  furnished — to  admire  his  ele- 
gant  appearance.  He  was  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion. 
His  coat  was  excessively  short-waisted — his  breeches  very 
tight-fitting,  his  collar  cut  with  immense  lapels,  his  tie 
a  length  of  old  lace  finished  with  a  diamond  pin,  said  to 
have  belonged  to  his  late  majesty.  Tallien  wore  it  out 
of  sentiment. 

He  looked  around  his  pleasant  room,  rather  too  luxu- 
rious, maybe,  for  a  man,  rather  over-scented,  but  refresh- 
ingly clean.  Tallien  seldom  spat,  and  he  never  invited 
his  dear  friend  Robespierre  into  his  dressing-room. 

How  enchanting  (he  thought)  Terezia  would  look  lying 


324  TORCHLIGHT 

on  his  big  sofa  in  one  of  her  semi-transparent  morning 
robes.  Her  presence  in  some  subtle  manner  filled  the  big 
room.  He  seemed  to  feel  the  insistent  pressure  of  her 
soft  arms,  to  feel  her  dehcate  breath — which  rivaled  his 
carnation  scent — to  see  her  ejes  like  twin  stars  shining, 
clear,  entreating.  .  .  . 

He  pulled  out  her  note  from  his  pocket,  spread  it  open 
on  the  table,  and  hungrily  moved  his  hot  lips  over  the 
written  words. 

A  discreet  knock  on  the  door  awoke  him  from  his  trance. 

"It  is  past  eleven,  citoi/en,"  said  his  servant. 

Tallien  snatched  his  hat  from  Pierre's  hand,  and  rushed 
down  the  stairs  into  his  waiting  cab. 


CHAPTER    XLH 

TN  the  leafy  month  of  June  fever  ravaged  the  prisons. 
"■■  There  was  a  strange  glitter  in  the  women's  eyes ;  their 
cheeks  were  flushed  when  they  met  at  meals,  kissed  and 
whispered  together.  Even  Josephine  forgot  her  pressing 
flirtations  in  the  glow  of  greater  matters.     If!     If!     If! 

The  impossible  sometimes  happens. 

Down  the  long  passages  of  Les  Carmes,  filled  to  over- 
flowing by  human  suffering — how  many  lives  had  not 
glided  that  way  into  the  unseen? — there  blew  a  current, 
fresh  as  a  breeze  from  the  salt  sea-coast,  intoxicating  the 
prisoners.  It  fanned  their  feverish  cheeks,  spurring  them 
to  wild  gaiety. 

See  you,  the  Revolution  was  tottering  to  its  fall  I 

Terezia  walked  through  the  crowded  prison  like  a 
torch-bearer.  Her  shining  light  lit  on  sad  faces,  on  old 
faces,  on  young  faces ;  faces  seamed  by  illness,  faces  blot- 
'ted  by  indifference ;  loving  faces,  cruel  faces,  beloved  faces. 
...  It  was  a  very  great  company. 

On  this  particular  night — when  surely  midsummer  elves 
were  gamboling  in  some  lonely  woodland  glen — the  in- 
mates of  Cell  306  were  particularly  wide  awake  and  in  the 
best  of  good  spirits.  On  the  window  ledge,  in  the  neck 
of  a  bottle,  burned  a  precious  stump  of  candle.  A  grand 
illumination,  ladies,  in  honor  of  a  very  important  rendez- 
vous !  So  much  depended  on  the  successful  issue  of  Tere- 
zia's  interview  A^ath  Tallien.  For  months  they'd  talked  of 
little  else.  Terezia  was  confident  of  victory.  Josephine 
and  Ninon  had  complete  faith  in  their  beautiful  cell-mate. 

"Nothing  can  move  her  from  her  purpose,"  they  de- 
clared to  their  mtimates.    "She  is  exquisite." 

The  intimates  would  cordially  agree  with  the  gentle 

325 


326  TORCHLIGHT 

Madame  de  Beauhamais  (as  yet  unaware  of  her  widow- 
hood). Terezia  was  indeed  the  golden  butterfly  of  dull 
prison  routine.  Before  her  magic  glance  secret  doors 
opened,  "dangerous"  letters  had  a  way  of  reaching  her 
with  their  seals  unbroken.  In  Cell  306  there  was  a  price- 
less collection  of  Deputy  Talhen's  ill-spelled  missives  writ- 
ten on  the  thick,  strongly-scented  note-paper  he  affected, 
signed  in  cypher.  As  Terezia  said,  he  was  the  soul  of 
precaution. 

"Beloved,"  said  Josephine,  "there  is  a  limit  to  every- 
thing. We  don't  want  his  prudence.  We  want  aU  the 
courage  he  can  muster.  Tell  him  the  truth.  We  are 
dead  sick  of  prison  life.  In  the  interest  of  humanity  he 
must  set  us  free.     In  return  we  will  aU  love  him  tenderly." 

At  such  speeches,  spoken  in  the  best  of  good  faith, 
Terezia,  as  a  rule,  merely  shook  her  head.  Sometimes  she 
laughed. 

Josephine  took  the  tortoiseshell  pin  from  Ninon's  out- 
stretched hand — poor  little  thin  hand — the  duchess  was 
looking  very  ill — and  fastened  it  as  best  she  could  in  Te- 
rezia's  coiffure.  The  ladies,  owing  to  prison  regulations, 
had  all  close-cropped  heads.  Terezia's  curls  grew  in  pro- 
fusion, with  a  glow  all  their  own,  soft  as  silk  and  bright 
as  gold.  To-night  there  was  no  lack  of  animation  in  her 
beautiful  face.  Her  eyes  shone,  by  the  light  of  that  poor 
little  taper,  like  rare  pearls.  They  hadn't  a  stick  of 
rouge  between  them,  but  excitement  had  lent  her  aU  the 
color  she  needed. 

Ninon  possessed  a  tiny  filigree  flask  of  attar  of  roses. 
Very  gravely  she  unscrewed  the  cork  and  presented  Te- 
rezia with  a  very  precious  drop. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Terezia  almost  solemnly. 

The  sweet  perfume  flooded  the  cell.  Josephine  closed 
her  eyes  and  tried  to  Imagine  that  she  had  strayed  into 
Roger  and  Gallet's  shop  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  However, 
it  was  rather  beyond  her — so  she  opened  them  again  to 
admire  Terezia. 

"You  look  charming,"  she  said ;  "quite  charming.    He'll 


TERROR  327 

want  to  fly  away  with  you.     Promise  us  you  won't  let 
him.     You  must  come  back  again — pauvre  enfant!" 

"I'll  come  back,"  said  Terezia  dreamily,  "laden  with 
proraises- 


5> 


'Much  good  they'll  do  us,"  said  Josephine. 

"Trust  me!"  Terezia's  voice  rang  sharp  and  hard. 

"We  all  trust  you.  Every  one  of  us,"  said  the  duchess 
earnestly. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  friends." 

Ninon,  with  a  graceful  gesture,  threw  back  her  head 
and  embraced  Madame  Carrabus  with   much  tenderness. 

"Tell  him  to  hurry,"  she  said.  "Make  him  understand, 
clearly,  that  we  are  very  much  inconvenienced  at  Les 
Cannes.     I  would  love  a  hot  bath." 

"I'd  sell  my  sotil  for  a  looking-glass,"  said  Josephine 
flippantly. 

"I'd  sell  mine  for  change  of  linen,"  agreed  Terezia. 

"It  is  wicked  to  complain  when  God  has  been  so  good  to 
us,"  whispered  Ninon,  sorry  for  her  little  fit  of  temper. 

"You  have  got  to  thank  Joseph  for  your  life,  darling," 
said  Madame  de  Beauhamais. 

"I  know  it.     Joseph  is  a  magician." 

Terezia  glanced  at  her  charming  watch,  daintily  jeweled 
and  enameled.  "He  is  very  late.  It  is  more  than  half- 
past  ten." 

"Never  mind.  Wash  your  hands.  I  never  doubt 
Joseph.     Has  he  ever  failed  to  keep  a  promise.?" 

"Never!" 

Josephine  poured  out  a  modicum  of  cold  water  into 
their  little  tin  basin.  (Both  she  and  Ninon  had  generously 
abstained  from  washing  for  several  days  so  that  Terezia 
might  have  enough.)  Once  a  week  the  ladies  were  given 
a  regulation  pint  of  cold — fairly  clean — water  for  pur- 
poses of  ablution. 

At  first  they  had  angrily  demanded  a  better  supply. 
However,  all  their  sarcasm  was  wasted  on  the  young 
warder — the  same  who  had  one  evening  stolen  their 
mattress. 


328  TORCHLIGHT 

"Take  it  or  leave  it,"  he'd  grunted.  "It  is  all  the  same 
to  me." 

Now  they  never  complained.  They  would  preserve  their 
self-respect,  as  Josephine  put  it,  at  the  expense  of  their 
complexions. 

At  times  all  three  of  them — especially  Terezia — would 
think  sadly  of  their  plenished  pots  of  skin  food;  their 
eau  de  toilette — golden  and  refreshing;  their  delicate  in- 
visible rouge ;  their  lip-salve ;  their  immense  powder-puffs ; 
their  cut-glass  bottles  of  perfumes ;  their  stacks  of  under- 
linen  ;  their  silk  stockings ;  and,  when  they  grew  very  sad 
indeed,  of  their  dear  little  bedroom  slippers,  daintily 
embroidered  in  colored  silks.  .  .  . 

Josephine  could  almost  read  Terezia's  aching  thoughts, 
which  she  understood  and  respected.  On  such  depressing 
occasions  the  long  hours  dragged  wearily  in  Cell  306. 

Only  the  little  duchess  would  lightly  wave  aside  the 
attractions  of  her  toilet-table,  and  spend  a  great  deal  of 
time  happily  thinking  of  Ninette  and  Charlemagne-Marie, 
playing  in  her  company  in  the  home  orchards,  in  far-away 
Picardy,  under  the  auspices  of  brilliant  sunshine. 

Sometimes  Ninon  would  recall  the  sad  evening  when 
her  tall  cousin  had  gone  away — leaving  a  blank  behind 
him — and  when  Joseph  had  returned  her  her  lease  of  life, 
wrapped,,  as  it  wei'e,  in  a  cloak  of  abuse.  How  he  had 
cursed  and  stormed!  Dear  Joseph!  Even  the  dreadful 
master-cook — in  spite  of  his  unlucky  bet — had  looked  at 
him  very  respectfully. 

Terezia  dried  her  hands  and  wiped  her  face  on  the  very 
grubby  family  towel. 

"I  am  really  anxious,"  she  said.  "It  would  be  so  like 
Tallien  to  back  out  of  a  difficulty." 

Josephine  measured  the  life  of  the  candle  with  a  practi- 
cal eye  before  answering.  "No,  you  are  not,"  she  said, 
briskly,  "you  are  only  impatient.  With  care,  it'll  last 
half  an  hour." 

Ninon,  who  had  lain  down  on  the  bed  because  she  was 
Jired  of  standing,  here  raised  herself  on  her  elbow. 


TERROR  329 

«I  hear  footsteps,"  she  said.    "Listen!" 

The  ladies  strained  their  ears.  There  were  always 
sounds  at  Les  Carmes.  A  great  prison  is  always,  day 
and  night,  awake.     When  does  pain  sleep? 

A  low  knock  on  their  door — bolted  on  the  outside — 
justified  Ninon's  statement. 

She  jumped  up,  and  threw  the  thin  coverlet  around  her 
bare  shoulders.  Her  white  satin  dress,  trimmed  with  red 
velvet  bows,  was  neatly  folded  on  the  floor. 

Josephine  had  not  undressed,  but  was  still  in  her  dinner 
finery.  Now  she  quickly  wrapped  a  lace  shawl  round 
Terezia. 

*'My  dear,  my  dear,"  she  breathed,  "what  wouldn't  I 
give  to  be  in  your  shoes !  I  love  an  adventure,  an  adven- 
ture with  a  man  in  it!  Don't  be  careful.  Turn  his  head 
— send  him  home  famishing.    It  is  the  only  way  with  men." 

Terezia  hardly  listened  to  this  wise  counsel.  She  was 
watching  the  little  door  with  a  fascinated  expression. 

"Come  in,"  she  said. 

The  bolt  grated  in  the  heavy  bar.  The  door  opened 
two  inches. 

"Good-by,"  said  the  duchess,  stealing  two  thin  arms 
round  Terezia's  splendid  throat.     "God  bless  you." 

Terezia  bent  down  and  kissed  Ninon.  "I  am  fright- 
ened," she  whispered. 

"Follow,"  called  a  voice  outside — a  strange  voice! 

"Oh !"  gasped  Terezia,  shrinking  against  the  wall,  "it  is 
a  trap!     I  am  done  for!" 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  such  a  thing,"  said  Joseph- 
ine, nearly  crying  with  vexation.  She  gave  Terezia  a 
little  push;  also  a  grain  of  comfort.  "He  loves  you," 
she  murmured.     "He  adores  you." 

Then  she  boldly  flung  open  the  door,  and  looked  down 
the  interminable  and  almost  pitch-dark  corridor.  At  the 
further  end  there  gleamed  a  faint  lantern.  A  drove  of 
rats  whisked  past,  to  the  left,  with  unmistakable  scratch- 
ing feet. 


330  TORCHLIGHT 

Josephine  did  not  draw  back.  Instead,  she  beckoned  to 
Terezia.     "Now  is  your  time,"  she  whispered.     "Fly!" 

Terezia  took  her  courage  in  both  her  hands,  and  ran 
swiftly  down  the  gloomy  passage  towards  the  lantern. 

Josephine  stared  after  her  with  breathless  interest. 

"But  she  is  a  lucky  girl,"  she  said.    "Ninon,  clierie " 

Suddenly  the  door  was  flung  back  in  her  face.  As  she 
retreated  into  the  cell,  she  heard  the  heavy  bolt  rasp 
against  its  socket. 

Terezia  followed  her  unknown  guide  down  interminable 
passages,  winding,  crooked,  deeply  vaulted.  They  passed 
through  echoing  doorways,  and  down  steep  staircases, 
indented  by  the  tread  of  many  generations.  Once  Te- 
rezia nearly  stepped  into  a  shining  pool  of  water.  The  dim 
lantern  showed  her,  for  an  instant,  curious  mosses,  thin 
thread-like  mosses,  chnging  to  glistening  black  stones, 
stones  which  were  perpetually  wet. 

She  clung  to  the  reeking  wall,  which  here  was  of  a  very 
rough  surface.  The  wall  looked  as  if  it  was  hewn  out  of 
a  single  slab  of  rock,  a  mighty,  stationary,  eternal  wall 
which  defied  freedom. 

She  grew  giddy  with  terror.  Where  was  he  leading  her 
to — this  speechless,  utterly  indifferent  man?  He  had 
never  glanced  at  her.  Now  and  again  his  hollow  voice 
echoed  in  that  frightful  labyrinth  as  he  chanted  his  par- 
rot-like order:     "Follow!"     She  followed  blindly. 

Before  she  could  grasp  the  significance  of  the  blessed 
moment  she  found  herself  standing  in  a  long  narrow  street, 
looking  up  at  the  sky.  The  night  air  stnick  her  as  very 
cold  after  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  Les  Cannes.  Neither 
mocn  nor  stars  were  visible,  but  already  a  faint  streak  of 
light  showed  in  the  east;  the  spirit  of  dawn,  waiting  on 
the  spirit  of  night.     The  effect  was  very  beautiful. 

The  guide  had  vanished. 

As  her  eyes  grew  more  accustomed  to  the  darkness  she 
noticed  the  tall  houses,  thje  shuttered  windows,  and  down 


TERROR  331 

the  street  the  figure  of  a  man,  wrapped  in  a  Venetian 
cloak. 

Terezia  walked  down  the  quiet  street.  Coming  quite 
close  to  the  man,  she  paused — looked  at  him — and  slipped 
witliin  the  folds  of  his  heavy  cloak.  Thus  they  stood  side 
by  side,  hand  in  hand,  and  neither  spoke  a  word.  Not  a 
sound  broke  the  stillness. 

Once  again  Terezia  lifted  her  brilliant  eyes  and  looked 
long  at  Tallien,  her  lover. 

He  was  no  longer  a  Terrorist,  but  a  man  in  love.  Touch 
is  more  eloquent  than  speech.  He  pressed  her  very  close, 
and,  bending  down,  he  searched  for  her  lips.  ...  It  was 
an  eternal  kiss. 

She  swayed  a  little,  her  lips  moved ;  she  gave  a  faint  sob. 

And  around  them  circled  the  freshness  of  June,  the 
silence  of  dawn,  and  the  spell  of  human  desire. 

He  found  his  voice  at  last  in  an  agony  of  appeal. 
"Terezia,"  he  whispered,  lifting  her  off  her  feet,  "I  love 
you!  Why  haven't  you  come  before?  Why  have  you  de- 
nied me  this  happiness?  Your  mouth,  Terezia,  I  have 
thought  of  day  and  night  since  we  parted.  And  of  your 
white  arms,  and  your  soft  breast  and  your  honey-sweet 
words.     Speak,  darling.     Tell  me  I  am  not  dreaming." 

His  insistence  brought  her  to  earth.  Terezia  buried 
her  hot  face  in  his  scented  coat.  His  luxurious  coat  ap- 
pealed to  her.  The  man  offended  her,  but  his  clothes  gave 
her  rich  satisfaction. 

He  laughed  happily,  and  put  her  on  her  feet. 

"Come,"  he  said. 

"Where  are  we  going  to?" 

"Hush !" 

She  followed  him  eagerly. 

They  walked  a  few  paces  down  the  quiet  street,  and 
stopped  outside  a  tall  and  shuttered  house.  Tallien  took 
a  latchkey  out  of  his  pocket  and  opened  the  front  door. 
It  led  into  a  bare  and  empty  passage,  very  poorly  lit. 
Terezia  could  just  see  a  wide  and  shallow  staircase  facing 


332  TORCHLIGHT 

her,  and,  beyond,  a  tall  paneled  door.     All  the  wood-work 
was  of  black  oak. 

Talllen  strode  across  the  echoing  hall  with  no  pretense 
of  precaution.  With  a  flourish  he  opened  the  door  of  a 
room,  evidently  prepared  for  their  reception — a  sight  for 
hungry  eyes ! 

He  swaggered  across  to  the  fireplace  and  took  up  his 
position  on  the  hearth-rug,  staring  at  his  mistress.  No, 
her  beauty  remained  unmarred,  in  spite  of  poor  feeding, 
villainous  housing  and  her  precarious  existence.  Tallien 
rubbed  his  hands. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.  "We  haven't  over  much  time.  We 
mustn't  waste  a  single  precious  minute." 

Terezia  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  very  gently 
rubbed  her  eyes. 

She  found  herself  in  a  little,  cheerful,  wainscoted  parlor, 
paneled  with  black  oak,  and,  half-way  down  the  walls, 
fitted  with  embossed  leather  hangings  sho-^ving  fruits,  mel- 
low with  color,  on  a  dim  background  of  old  gold. 

The  curtains  were  drawn  in  front  of  the  deep  window 
embrasures,  heavy  curtains  of  tawny  velvet;  between  the 
windows  stood  an  antique  Chinese  chest,  and  on  the  wall 
above  there  was  a  long  mirror,  framed  in  carved  and  gilded 
wood. 

A  broad  and  comfortable  settee  faced  the  enormous  fire- 
place, lit  by  a  small  fire  of  birch  logs ;  there  were  cushioned 
chairs,  covered  in  blue  leather  to  match;  and  wonderful 
Persian  rugs  placed  on  the  shining  oak  floor.  Candles 
blazed  everywhere,  on  the  fine  chimney-piece,  in  the  mas- 
sive brass  chandelier,  and  on  the  round  supper-table,  which 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

The  table  was  covered  with  a  damask  cloth,  lace-edged, 
and  set  out  with  an  elegant  cold  supper,  Terezia  noticed 
at  once  ripe  strawberries,  in  a  Nankin  bowl,  and  an 
equally  generous  supply  of  cream ;  in  a  wine-cooler,  packed 
in  ice,  champagne;  dishes  of  spiced  bread  and  rich  cur- 
rant loaves ;  dishes  of  chicken  and  ham,  smoked  tongue, 
mayonnaise  of  salmon;  vegetables,  salads,  creams,  jellies 


TERROR  333 

and  sweetmeats.  There  was  a  fine  show  of  silver  plate, 
a  glittering  array  of  knives  and  forks ;  tall  fragile  goblets, 
decanters  of  red  and  white  wine,  and  a  service  of  blue-and- 
white  porcelain.  On  the  centre  of  the  table  stood  a  great 
bowl  of  cut  crystal,  filled  with  fragrant  red  roses. 

A  door  ajar  led  into  an  inner  room — very  white  and 
gay.  Terezia  noticed  a  fine  bed,  draped  with  blue  satin 
curtains  and  luxuriously  piled  with  blankets,  down  quilts, 
and  snowy  sheets  and  pillows.  On  the  blue  satin  counter- 
pane lay  a  varied  assortment  of  dainty  female  apparel 
and,  close  by,  on  the  pile  carpet,  a  pair  of  charming  blue 
satin  slippers. 

In  the  bath-room  adjoining  stood  a  commodious,  steam- 
ing bath,  with  a  plentiful  array  of  towels,  scents,  soaps, 
brushes.  .  .  .  Not  a  grain  of  dust  anywhere!  Not  a 
speck  of  dirt!  A  gorgeous,  joyful,  fairy  vision,  fit  for 
fairy  woman.  .  .  . 

Terezia  rubbed  her  eyes.  O  tantalizing  dream!  She 
looked  at  Tallien — tall,  self-assured,  infinitely  common- 
place. Thank  God,  he  at  least  was  not  of  the  stuff  o' 
dreams !  In  a  rush  of  relief,  she  flew  at  him,  swift  as  a 
bird,  tingling  with  life. 

"O  you  live  man  !'*  she  breathed.  "YoU  at  least  are 
real,  unfanciful,  unromantic.  You  never  invented  this 
glory?  What  shall  I  enjoy  first?"  She  pressed  her 
mouth,  warm  and  palpitating,  against  his  willing  lips. 

He  laughed  loudly. 

"You  are  as  beautiful  as  ever.  Witch  of  the  World," 
he  said,  waving  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  clutching 
at  the  back  of  her  neck.  "Joseph's  little  idea.  He  is 
full  of  fancies.  'There  is  no  pleasure  like  pleasing  others,' 
he  said.  'Let's  give  her  the  limit.'  The  house  belonged 
to  an  artist  who  has  recently  trotted  over  to  the  majority. 
Joseph  has  had  his  eye  on  the  place  for  some  time.  In 
fact,  he  made  me  take  it  over,  a  bargain — a  distinct  bar- 
gain. Ha,  ha!  Cost  me  a  stamp,  darling.  He  took  no 
end  of  trouble  to  please  you.  Went  to  your  flat,  and 
searched    for    incriminating    documents — carried    off    a 


TORCHLIGHT 

bundle  of  clothe^  and  fal-lals — and  stopped  your  maid's 
howls  by  a  guinea  or  two.  Put  himself  to  some  danger, 
and  lied  like  a  carp  to  evade  drowning.  His  soldier  brother 
is  liome  on  leave,  and  it  is  he  who  fetched  you  to-night. 
Joseph " 

Terezia  was  not  listening.  She  disengaged  herself  from 
Tallien's  large  hand,  went  across*  the  room  and  knelt  down 
in  front  of  the  cut-glass  bowl,  burying  her  face  in  the  roses. 

"Years  agt),"  she  murmured,  "I  gathered  the  roses  of 
Caravachell.  Tallien,  they  were  absolutely  gorgeous !  I 
can  see  the.  big  terrace  aflame  with  color,  and  the  deep 
lake,  beyond  the  bowling-green;  it  was  always  cold  and 
clear  on  the  hottest  day.  I  was  never  afraid  of  heat. 
Mamma  would  shut  herself  up  in  the  house,  eat  sugar 
cakes  (pautTe  7rm{/nan!)  and  read  novels.  Papa  was  more 
or  less  engaged  in  Madrid.  When  he  came  home  we  used 
to  feast,  and  sing,  and  dance.  And  I  would  gather  the' 
roses  and  fill  his  room  to  overflowing.  I  was  always' 
extravagant.  Even  at  the  age  of  ten  I'd  trample  on  a 
flower  which,  lacked  a  petal.  I'd  ha.ve  nothing  less  than 
perfection.  .  .  .  Terezia,  Terezia,  will  you  ever  go  back 
on  yourself?"  She  spoke  passionately.  "Josephine  lives 
in  her  dreams,  and  Ninon  lives  for  her  children.  I  live 
for  myself!" 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  and  dropped  a  strawberry 
into  her  mouth.     She  did  it  again,  and  again. 

TalHen  watched  Terezia  feasting  her  senses,  gloriously 
happy.  He  grew  suddenly  angi*y.  "Where  do  I  come 
in?"  he  asked  sullenly.  "You're  beastly  selfish,  darling." 
He  sucked  his  lips. 

*'We  can't  aiford  to  throw  away  any  roses — we  women 
of  the  world.  Often  we  have  to  put^  up  with  second-rate 
flowers,  all  dull  and  speckled,  poor  things." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense!" 

"It  is  utter  nonsense,  darling,  but  so  satisfying  I"  She 
reached  for  the  cream-jug'and,  pouring  out  a  cupful,  she 
swallowed  it  at  a  gulp. 

"This  is  living,"  she  said. 


TERROR  335 

Tallien  noticed  several  stains  on  her  elegant  blue  dress, 
several  holes  in  her  elegant  silk  stockings,  and  a  faint 
roughness  on  her  peach  skin.  She  had  suffered  hardships 
— this  pearl  of  vanity !     Jlis  toy ! 

"Make  yourself  lovely,"  he  whispered,  kneeling  beside 
her.     "Feed  me,  Terezia.'* 

She  rose  immediately.  His  great  bulky  body  interfered 
with  the  beauty  of  the  supper-table.  In  kneeling  down  he 
had  crushed  the  exquisite  table-linen,  and  had  with  his 
big  hand  clumsily  pushed  the  wine  glasses  together,  with  a 
jangling,  jarring  sound.  She  could  have  screamed.  He 
was  ijnutterably  vulgar,  this  over-scented,  over-dressed 
man,  stained  by  crime. 

"Tallien,"  she  said,  bending  over  him.  "You  must  save 
us !  We  are  dying  by  inches  in  that  horrible  place.  Oh, 
Tallien,  the  dirt  at  Les  Carmes !  Dirt  grows  and  sticks 
and  peels  and  infects.  We  are  all  infectious.  When  hope 
dies,  sorrow  lives." 

He  floundered  to  his  feet;  "I  love  you,  by  God  I  love 
you !"  he  said. 

'Xove  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said  Terezia.  *'You 
have  got  to  be  very  brave,  my  darling — a  lion  in  action, 
not  a  Hon  in  love." 

"I  am  brave." 

"To-night " 

"I  have  risked  a  good  deal  to  see  you.  If  Robespierre 
finds  us  out  there  will  be  the  devil  to  pay." 

"Damn  you  for  a  dirty  coward!" 

Then,  regretting  her  temper,  she  cooed  up  to  him. 

"Think  of  the  rewards,  Tallien.  Think  of  your  little 
Terezia,  your  faithful,  adoring  wife.  I'll  love  you,  Tallien, 
if  you  kill  Robespierre.  All  France  will  love  you.  You'll 
be  great  and  famous;  rich  and  powerful.  We  will  keep 
open  house  and  give  splendid  entertainments.  And  when 
all  the  candles  are  put  out,  you  shall  hold  me  in  your  arms, 
and  love  me  as  much  as  ever  you  like." 

He  heaved  a  sigh  and  looked  at  her  sideways. 


336  TORCHLIGHT 

"That  is  so.    You  can  tell  lies — ha-ha ! — as  well  as  an j 


one." 


'*Not  when  my  life  is  at  stake." 

"  'Pen  mj  word  you  ought  to  have  been  dead,  ma'am, 
ahem,  an  angel  long  ago.  I  have  done  all  I  can  do  to 
save  you." 

Terezia  looked  up  at  him  adoringly. 

"How  wonderful  you  are,"  she  said  softly. 

"A  man  can  do  no  more  than  his  best,"  he  said  unctu- 
ously.    "Hurry,  my  pet.     That  bath  is  getting  cold." 

She  laughed.     "I'm  bewildered.     You  spoil  me,  sir." 

She  ran  into  the  inner  room,  clapping  her  hands  in 
naive  enjoyment.  "It  is  perfectly  lovely,"  she  called.  "I 
won't  keep  you  longer  than  I  can  help.  Give  me  half  an 
hour's  grace.  Say  your  prayers,  Tallien.  Pray  for 
courage  and  strength  of  purpose.  ,  .  .  I'm  worth  it. 
,  .  .  What  do  you  say.?*  No,  don't  come  in!  I  forbid 
you,  sirl" 

Terezia,  rapidly  undressing,  suddenly  remembered 
Josephine's  wise  counsel.  She'd  act  on  it  ...  in  the 
interests  of  humanity. 

"What  are  you  laughing  for.''" 

"Out  of  sheer  happiness,  sir,  sheer  happiness,"  she 
called. 

He  waited  outside  the  closed  door  trembling  with  im- 
patience. 


CHAPTER    XLin 

T^ ALLIEN  lounged  back  in  his  comfortable  high-backed 
•■•  chair  and  swore  that  he'd  stand  by  Terezia  through 
oceans  of  blood,  if  necessary.  He  hammered  his  spoon 
on  the  supper-table,  and  considered  his  mistress's  charms. 
She  had  been  mocking,  enchanting,  captivating,  com- 
plaisant, and,  through  each  phase,  she  had  watched  Tal- 
lien  as  a  panther  watches  his  prey. 

She  was  nearly  sure  of  him — nearly.  ,  .  .  AU  he  wanted 
she'd  give  him;  beauty  to  admire;  light  words  to  laugh 
at,  and  touch  for  touch.  Her  kisses  had  made  him 
astonishingly  brave. 

Terezia  had  curled  herself  up  on  the  broad  settee,  an 
armful  of  cushions  behind  her  head,  two  or  three  divine 
roses  in  her  hand.  She  was  enjoying  every  fleeting  mo- 
ment; her  supper,  her  lover,  her  drowsiness;  the  sight 
of  her  slim  foot  in  its  delicate  blue  satin  slipper;  the 
touch  of  her  fresh  linen  against  her  perfumed  body. 

She  glanced  lazily  around  the  room,  appreciating  the 
soft  candle-light,  the  shining  black  oak  panels,  the  old  gilt 
mirror,  the  fine  antique  Persian  carpet  at  her  feet,  the 
handsome  spaciousness  of  the  fireplace,  with  its  gleaming 
brass  dogs  and  fire-irons  .  .  .  every  detail  of  the  little 
room  was  artistically  perfect.  Terezia  loved  beauty  and 
felt  a  fleeting  pang  of  regret  for  the  artist  who  had  been 
obliged  to  leave  it  all  .  .  .  rather  lucky  for  her,  though. 
She  smoothed  the  soft  folds  of  her  pretty  wrapper. 
Surely  she  was  an  angel,  and  this  was  heaven?  .  .  .  Cen- 
turies ago  she  had  been  familiar  with  suffering  and  pain 
and  dirt — the  fearful  degradation  of  dirt. 

Some  remark  from  Tallien — who  was  still  occupied  in 
eating  and,  incidentally  choking  himself  over  a  large  plate- 

337 


338  TORCHLIGHT 

ful  of  jelly — Histurbed  her  pleasant  musing.  She  turned 
away  from  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands,  overwhelmed  with  self-pity.  Presently  she 
would  have  to  go  back  to  prison  carrying  three  parcels; 
a  present  for  Ninon,  a  present  for  Josephine,  and  a  packet 
of  memories  for  herself  .  .  .  she  would  never  forget  this 
precious  night — a  star  set  between  two  hells.  To  marry 
Tallien  was  to  court  misery.  To  return  to  Cell  306  was 
suicide.  She'd  like  to  leap  into  the  blue  satin  bed,  and 
sleep  for  ever. 

Tallien  continued  playing  with  his  knuckles  on  the 
supper-table,  and  airing  his  natural  grievances.  Save 
the  mark — had  Terezia  turned  prude?  Once  and  for  al- 
ways he'd  be  obeyed!  His  fat  cheeks,  decidedly  flushed, 
worked  convulsively ;  his  bloodshot  eyes  glared  viciously. 
He  wanted  more  than  she'd  given  him — more  for  his 
money — more  for  his  courage!  He  was  risking  liis  life 
to  please  her!  He  got  up,  banging  his  chair  against  the 
table,  and  stood  over  her,  recalling  episodes  which  might 
just  as  well  (in  the  interest  of  morality)  have  remained 
unrelated. 

Terezia  let  him  speak.  His  words  did  not  offend  her 
in  the  least.  In  fact,  she  smiled  angelically.  He  dropped 
his  blustering  tone  to  tell  her  a  piece  of  news.  Tallien 
was  seldom  above  meanness  and  lies.  He  looked  at  her, 
stretched  at  her  ease  on  the  sofa,  with  micontrollable  lust 
and  rage.     His  hand  trembled.     Would  this  hurt  her? 

"Darling,"  he  said  blandly,  "I  promise  you  I'll  take 
my  revenge  presently.  As  a  husband  you'll  find  me  very 
strict." 

He  sat  down  unsteadily.  (He  had  drunk  many  glasses 
of  champagne.)  "Do  you  remember  that  silly  ass,  Guery, 
the  youth  who  traveled  with  you  from  Bordeaux?'* 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said.     "What  of  him"? 

"You  won't  travel  with  him  again  in  a  hurry." 

"You  are  not  surely  jealous  of  a  boy?" 

"No.    Not  a  bit  of  it.    Ha,  ha!" 

'Give  me  a  kiss,  you  siUy  man!" 


<(/ 


TERROR  339 


«<i 


Fm  sill  J,  am  I?"  He  laughed  again.  "The  boy  was 
executed  this  mornrng — one  of  a  batch  from  La  Force. 
I  happened  to  recognize  him  on  the  platform,  and  he 
returned  my  salute  very  politely.  One  less  of  your  lovers 
in  this  troublesome  world,  eh?  And  I  tell  you,  you've  got 
to  keep  them  down."  He  pulled  his  chair  nearer  her  and 
stretched  out  his  hand. 

Terezia  looked  at  him  with  unveiled  horror.  "Don't 
touch  me!"  she  cried. 

He  laughed  sardonically.  *'I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !"  he 
said  nodding  his  head  gloomily.  He  flew  into  a  volley 
of  abuse. 

Suddenly  he  fell  at  her  feet,  the  tears  running  down 
his  face.  "You  are  treating  me  very  badly,"  he  whispered. 
"I'm  on  fire,  love,  on  fire." 

"There,  there,"  she  said,  "I  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind.'* 
{Mon  cceur,  she  thought  with  resignation,  my  ill-fated 
friend — so  we  are  never  to  meet  again?)  Tallien  was 
spoiling  her  exquisite  evening.  As  through  a  mist  she 
saw  the  candle-light  .  .  .  and  her  purpose  drifting  away. 
She  clutched  at  it  as  a  drowning  man  clutches  at  a  straw. 

Tallien  was  a  man  of  straw,  and  infinitely  mean.  Yet 
she  must  submit  to  him,  feign  admiration  and  a  love  she 
was  very  far  from  feeling;  give  him  kiss  for  kiss,  and 
promise  for  promise.  (Later  she  would  send  her  promises 
flying,  like  scraps  of  paper  before  the  wind.) 

She  gently  drew  down  his  head  on  her  breast,  and  laid 
two  cool  fingers  on  the  lids  of  his  bloodshot  eyes.  At  that 
moment  she  loathed  liim — in  her  imagination  she  saw  him 
dripping  with  blood — nevertheless,  she  wound  two  soft 
arms  round  his  neck  and  pillowed  his  head  on  her  lap. 

He  wiped  his  face  on  her  sleeve,  and  his  evil  expression 
relaxed  into  a  look  of  utter  content. 

"My  darling,"  she  whispered,  her  mouth  close  to  his, 
'*as  if  anything  in  the  world  mattered  compared  to  our 
love !  Keep  your  eyes  shut — it  will  do  your  poor  head 
good;  it  is  hot."  (Her  fingers  caressed  his  brow.)  "My 
own,  you  have  work  in  front  of  you  before  you  can  hope 


340  TORCHLIGHT 

to  win  jour  bride — your  willing,  joyful  bride.  I  am  very 
proud  of  my  Tallien,  and  God  knows  how  much  I  love 
him !  Dear,  dear,  don't  you  think  I  understand  that  your 
sufferings  are  far  worse  than  my  own?  Yours  is  a  very 
great  undertaking,  but  the  reward  is  great!  We  shall 
both  appreciate  the  sweetness  of  success.'* 

Still  circling  him  in  her  arms,  she  sang  a  little  song 
which  in  the  old  days  grim  Christina  had  sung  to  her: 

Tears  in  your  eyes  ? — 
Clouds  in  April  skies — 
Sleep,  sleep  awhile 
And  bring  me  a  smile. 

Give  me  your  hand  to  hold. 
To  Fairyland  we'll  steal. 
Where  all  the  toys  are  gold 
And  all  the  smiles  are  real. 

Sleep,  sleep,  light  of  mine  eye ! 
Red  the  glow  in  the  sky. 
Faint  the  light  on  the  stream. 
Dear  every  dream. 

By-and-by,  baby  mine. 

The  great  big  moon  will  shine 

Over  the  cedar  tree. 

Over  the  wide,  wide  sea. 

Terezia's  voice  was  low  and  sweet,  and  the  words  were 
well  fitted  to  the  simple  melody,  yet  they  made  no  im- 
pression on  Tallien. 

He  brushed  his  thick  black  hair  from  his  brow,  and 
looked  up  at  her  face  with  an  unmistakable  expression. 
She  laughed,  a  little  musical  laugh,  and,  bending  down, 
she  kissed  him  generously  ...  he  had  to  be  humored.   .  . 

Half  an  hour  later  Tallien,  appeased,  if  not  satisfied, 
was  smoking  a  cigarette  and  watching  Terezia,  as  she 
arranged  two  little  parcels  at  a  side  table.    Each  contained 


TERROR  341 

a  change  of  Imen,  a  tablet  of  soap,  a  tooth-brush,  a  bottle 
of  scent,  and  a  bag  of  sweets. 

"Give  me  your  pencil,"  she  said. 

Tallien  obliged  her,  still  with  that  good-tempered, 
affectionate  smile  on  his  face.  How  lovely  she  looked! 
What  a  cruel  shame  it  was  to  stuff  her  away  into  a  cell ! 

"Won't  they  be  enchanted!"  she  said,  as  she  wrote  on 
one  parcel,  "Josephine"  and  on  the  other  "Ninon." 

Then  she  looked  round  the  pleasant  room.  "It  is  four 
in  the  morning,"  she  said  sadly.  It  had  been  arranged 
that  Joseph  was  to  come  and  fetch  her  at  that  hour.  He 
had  strictly  limited  her  luggage,  or  we  may  be  sure  she 
would  have  returned  to  Cell  306  laden  with  pillows,  rugs, 
bread,  candies,  and  the  blue  satin  slippers.  Terezia  sighed 
as  she  weighed  her  modest  parcels.  She  could  easily  hide 
them  under  her  shawl.  She  must  be  sensible,  and,  yes, 
thankful. 

Tallien,  sitting  in  his  comfortable  chair,  a  large  smile 
on  his  large  face,  was  turning  the  pages  of  a  little  book 
in  his  hand.  It  was  an  up-to-date  calendar.  He  and 
Terezia  had  been  lingering  over  dates — likely  dates.  It 
had  pained  Terezia  that  they  couldn't  agree  on  the  exact 
day. 

"Well,"  she  said,  coming  forward,  "have  you  decided?" 

"Darling,"  he  said,  kissing  her  little  hand  lightly,  "you 
must  have  patience.  There  are  practical  details  to  ar- 
range." 

"In  the  meanwhile?"  she  suggested. 

He  shrugged  his  great  shoulders  (regarding  that  mat- 
ter also  from  a  different  standpoint).  "They'll  die.  Lots 
will  die.  We  must  give  his  godship  a  handsome  length  of 
rope.    One  day  I'll  screw  him  into  an  ugly  corner " 

"The  day !     The  day !"  she  insisted. 

"Dear  love,"  he  said  blandly,  as  if  speaking  to  a  wilful 
child,  "trust  me,  and  you  won't  go  far  wrong," 

Her  impatience  was  very  sweet.  He  attributed  it  solely 
to  her  devotion  to  himself.  His  little  girl — wife  to  be — 
loved  liim,  as  a  man  of  his  attractions  deserved  to  be  loved. 


342  TORCHLIGHT 

He  shut  up  his  little  almanac  and  wagged  a  jeweled 
finger  at  Terezia, 

"I'll  give  you  his  handsome  head  on  a  charger,  soon 
enough,  my  pet.  I'll  put  pennies  on  his  eyes,  or  they 
would  be  sure  to  glitter  and  frighten  you.  Nobody  must 
frighten  my  dear  little  woman,"  he  added.  He  laughed 
at  his  own  wit,  vastly  pleased  with  himself. 

Terezia  leaned  over  his  chair  and  took  his  hand  in  hers. 

"Your  nails  want  cutting,"  she  observed. 

"Any  other  remark?"  he  said,  teasing  a  bright  curl  at 
her  neck.     She  was  bewitching! 

"You  are  getting  a  bit  fat.'* 

He  drew  in  his  breath  and  puffed  out  his  cheeks.  "The 
better  to  love  you,  my  dear,"  he  bawled.  He  grinned  until 
his  big  square  teeth  shone  in  two  semi-circles.  "The  bet- 
ter to  bite  you,  my  dear,"  he  said,  playfully  sucking  her 
thumb. 

"Naughty  man !     What  great  big  arms !" 

"The  better  to  hug  you,  my  dear."  He  drew  her 
roughly  down  on  his  knee.  "I'll  send  you  a  letter  to- 
morrow," he  breathed  in  her  ear,  "a  thunderin'  good 
letter." 

Terezia  sighed.     "How  I  love  you !"  she  said. 

The  lovers  were  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  footsteps 
in  the  passage  outside. 

Joseph — for  it  was  he — on  entering  the  room  was 
favored  by  a  charming  tableau,  Terezia  had  the  grace  to 
blush,  and  also  to  thank  him  very  prettily  for  her  even- 
ing's entertainment. 

"Don't  mention  it,  madame,"  said  Joseph  in  his  politest 
manner,  doffing  his  red  wig  (exposing  a  neat  dark  head 
and  a  fine  forehead).  "It  has  given  me  great  pleasure 
to  have  been  able  to  arrange  this  little  interlude,  pleasing 
to  all  parties.     Friend  Tallien,  my  compliments." 

Joseph  was  dressed  in  his  prison  garb,  filthy,  unkempt, 
with  wide  jack-boots,  excessively  muddy;  his  wig,  combed 
a  la  mode,  tucked  under  his  arm ;  his  face  moist  and  sooty ; 
his  dirty  hands  were  half  hidden  by  his  long  red  worsted 


TERROR  343 

sleeves,  tied  back  and  knotted  with  pieces  of  cord.  His 
mouth  was  defaced  by  an  absent  tooth,  and  altogether  his 
appearance  didn't  exactly  invite  confidence. 

Terezia  slipped  off  Tallien's  knee.  Impulsively  she  came 
towards  Joseph. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "who  are  you.'"* 

"Joseph,  madame." 

"Am  I  never  to  bless  you  by  any  other  name.?" 

He  shook  his  head.     "Never  is  a  big  word,"  he  said. 

"Sit  down  a  moment,  and  have  a  drink,"  said  Tallien, 
hospitably. 

"No,  thanks." 

Terezia  smiled.  "It  is  all  arranged,"  she  said — her 
eyes  very  brilliant. 

"Tallien  stays  on  top,  and  the  little  blue  god,  alias  the 
Incorruptible  One,  alias  Maximilien  Robespierre,  goes 
under.  Shall  we  swear  to  see  this  thing  through?"  said 
Joseph,  absently  blowing  out  two  candles  as  he  spoke. 

Tallien  fidgeted  on  his  comfortable  chair — his  big  legs 
sprawling  wide.  He  didn't  like  Joseph's  easy  confidence. 
Confound  his  impudence ! 

"I'll  denounce  someone,"  he  drawled.  *'Maybe  I'll  de- 
nounce Joseph.  I  could  whisk  Joseph  to  Kingdom  Come 
as  easily  as  a  fly  crawls." 

Joseph  looked  him  up  and  down. 

*'If  it  comes  to  that,  I  could  denounce  Tallien  as  easily 
as  a  bird  flies,"  he  said,  pleasantly. 

Tallien  laughed  uproariously,  jingling  his  money  in  his 
pockets,  and  flashing  his  big  eyes  on  the  company. 

"A  truce,"  he  cried,  "a  truce!     I  trust  you,  Joseph.'* 

"I  trust  you,  Tallien." 

Terezia  looked  at  Joseph  imploringly. 

"I've  been  entertaining  my  friends,"  said  Joseph,  "Mas- 
ter Cook,  Master  Dignity  and  some  twenty  other  con- 
genial spirits.  I  left  them  pleasantly  drunk  for  our 
purpose.  Alas,  ma'am,  I've  come  to  fetch  you  home. 
The  party  is  over." 

*'Thank  you,  sir,"  answered  Terezia.     "I'll  get  ready 


344  TORCHLIGHT 

at  once."  She  dropped  him  a  curtsy,  and  disappeared 
into  the  next  room. 

The  men  were  silent  during  her  brief  absence.  Tallien 
was  aggrieved  at  this  summary  breaking- up  of  his  orgy. 
He  hadn't  nearly  finished  with  Terezia.  He  was  perfectly 
happy  where  he  was.  He  didn't  want  to  stir  beyond  the 
next  room,  where  the  bed  looked  inviting.  He  yawned 
and  blinked  his  eyes  and  scratched  his  head. 

*'She  is  a  very  beautiful  woman,"  he  said,  sulkily.  "And 
very  easy  to  get  on  with.     Also  she  loves  me  very  much." 

*'Which  ought  to  simplify  matters,"  said  Joseph,  bow- 
ing. The  bow  was  for  Terezia  and  also  for  her  old  blue 
dress,  stained  and  pathetic.  The  old  blue  dress  had  noble 
associations. 

He  took  up  her  parcels.  "I  daren't  allow  more,"  he 
said  sadly.     "At  your  convenience,  madame." 

"I  am  quite  ready,"  answered  Terezia,  taking  a  hand- 
ful of  red  roses  from  the  crystal  bowl. 

Tallien  clattered  to  his  feet,  noisy  with  regret,  *'Wait 
a  minute,  precious,  wait  a  minute,"  he  said. 

Joseph  very  considerately,  went  outside  and,  cautiously 
opening  the  hall  door,  he  looked  down  the  empty  street. 

Straight  ahead  loomed  the  grim  prison,  the  prison  eter- 
nally awake. 

Overhead  the  dawn  had  spread  her  fanlight,  heralding 
another  beautiful  day. 


CHAPTER    XLIV 

'npHERE  were  plenty  of  executions  in  Paris  throughout 
"*•     the  month  of  June  and  well  on  into  leafy  July  before 
anything  wonderful  happened. 

The  poor  ladies  in  Cell  306  lived  on  from  day  to  day, 
bright  hope  exchanged  for  dull  acceptance.  Terezia's 
fairy  party  and  fairy  presents  and  fairy  promises  faded 
into  dim  recollection  as  the  weeks  slipped  past  in  horrible 
monotony.  Even  the  daily  reading  of  the  Lists  failed  to 
excite  the  prisoners.  There  was  a  certain  sameness  about 
them.  Those  who  stayed  behind  almost  envied  those  who 
went  out.  The  good-byes  were  cordial,  tinged  with 
jealousy.     And  no  one  cried. 

Tallien  didn't  again  repeat  his  indiscretion.  Even  his 
love-letters  to  Terezia  grew  sensibly  fewer,  and  sensibly 
colder. 

Truth  to  tell,  the  fairy  party  had  very  nearly  ruined 
his  prestige.  A  woman's  kiss  was  not  worth  the  scandal 
of  risking  his  own  neck.  As  a  precautionary  measure, 
Tallien  denied  the  whole  affair. 

"Lord  bless  us,"  he  said,  highly  amused,  twirling  his 
cane,  "there  are  plenty  of  women  in  Paris  without  taking 
one  from  Les  Carmes." 

His  good-humor  saved  his  head — this  time  much  to 
Robespierre's  chagrin.  He  had  so  counted  on  friend  Tal- 
lien's  folly.  (He'd  known  all  about  it.)  He  was  aching 
to  denounce  him. 

But  the  Assembly  no  longer  listened  to  his  godship  with 
their  old  attentive  respect.  In  fact,  many  members  paid 
scant  attention  to  his  fiery  orations.  Some  even  yawned 
openly  in  his  face ;  others  laughed  in  derision. 

345 


346  TORCHLIGHT 

Robespierre  grew  to  love  his  own  society  in  those  do^ 
days  when  the  baking  sun  hung  over  dusty,  smelling  Paris. 
He  shunned  committee-rooms  as  a  man  naturally  shuns  a 
plague-spot.  New  laws,  new  speeches,  new  ideas  filled  him 
with  suspicion.  They  savored  of  personal  indignity. 
More  than  once  his  own  amendments  (the  only  ones  he 
tolerated)  had  been  received  with  silence,  ominous  silence 
which  is  akin  to  mutiny. 

Men  of  our  spacious  times  glance  back  at  that  arch- 
fiend— new-baked  god  and  ancient  devil — as  he  hurries  the 
House  through  some  new-fangled  formality — smacking  his 
dry  tongue  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth — httle  green 
eyes  darting  fire  like  revolving  lamps,  trying  to  pierce 
each  man's  secret  mind.  Once  safe  from  the  precincts 
of  the  sacred  Assembly,  he  tears  down  the  hot  streets, 
faster  and  faster — until  he  dashes  madly  through  the 
leafy  Bois — alone! 

Alone. 

So  he  ran — as  if  possessed — through  the  pretty,  leafy 
glades  of  the  quiet  park;  arms  swinging  like  pendulums, 
eyes  glaring  like  revolving  lamps ;  tongue  wagging  sedu- 
lously— he  had  acquired  a  habit  of  talking  to  himself — 
alone,  always  alone. 

They  weren't  enjoyable  walks,  but  very  tiring.  When 
darkness  fell,  with  shifty  eyes  looking  out  for  possible 
assassins,  he  would  drag  his  weary  body  home  and  lay  it 
down  to  rest  on  his  mean  bed,  beneath  the  ruby  lamp  which 
emitted  a  gentle,  deceptive  ray.  ...  At  night  his  real 
misery  began. 

By  report  he  took  to  prayers  and  kind  deeds.  By 
report  he  had  been  seen  kissing  little  children,  la3ang 
gentle  hands  on  their  fluffy  golden  curls,  and  giving  them 
sugar-plums. 

And  what  of  friend  Tallien,  with  his  large  smile,  and 
his  no  less  large  purpose? 

He  walked  on  air — as  the  saying  goes,  to  signify  ex- 
quisite self-assurance — bright,  celestial  air,  couleur  de 
rose.     He  grew  very  bright  in  his  dress,  too — these  warm 


TERROR  347 

summer  days,  when  the  soft  winds  played  over  parched 
Paris,  each  breath  full  of  promise. 

It  was  astonishing  how  fine  it  kept,  how  the  flowers 
bloomed  in  hidden  gardens,  how  old  disused  carriages 
creaked  in  old  disused  coach-houses,  and  how  lords  and 
ladies  of  the  veritable  ancien  regime  took  to  high  play. 
Their  stakes  were  the  hves  of  men.  Would  any  of  tliem 
survive  the  Terror? 

In  the  meanwhile  the  tumbrils  ran  their  dreary  course 
to  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  rather  overcrowded,  if  any- 
thing. All  classes  were  represented.  Great  calm  ladies, 
and  common  women  who  howled,  grands  seigneurs,  and 
mean  men  who  might  have  claimed  legitimate  descent,  but 
never  a  shred  of  courage;  big,  ruffianly  fellows  who  cried 
like  babies  at  sight  of  the  scaffold — ugly  sights,  very. 

As  we  have  said,  Tallien  took  a  brilliant  interest  in  his 
new  clothes,  and  in  his  dress  almost  eclipsed  friend  Robes- 
pierre. The  Supreme  Being,  by  the  way,  did  not  do 
justice  to  his  azure  coat,  wearing  it  with  a  certain  sloven- 
liness of  style  which  the  whole  Assembly  noticed,  and  most 
particularly  genial  Tallien. 

Up  to  the  very  last  these  two  devoted  enemies — it  sounds 
trivial  to  write  them  down  as  friends — clung  to  each 
other  in  brotherly  affection,  supporting  each  other  and 
telling  each  other  pretty  little  lies,  smiling  at  each  other 
across  the  Assembly,  giving  each  other  little  hints,  little 
courtesies.  They  knew  they  were  humbugging  each  other ; 
they  knew  they  were  arch-enemies — but  their  exaggerated 
attentions,  their  breezy  compliments  waxed  none  the 
slower  for  that.  However,  by  mutual  consent  they  kept 
their  politeness  (like  their  glossy  beaver  hats)  for  out-of- 
door  wear. 

*'PIerre,  my  blue  cravat,"  said  Tallien,  *'My  silver 
tissue  waistcoat — you  know,  the  one  woven  with  little  red 
rosebuds  and  forget-me-nots." 

**Yes,  citoyen,'*  answered  the  discreet  manservant,  who 
took  an  interest  in  his  master's  appearance. 


348  TORCHLIGHT 

Sometimes  he  would  make  use  of  his  card  of  admission 
and  watch  his  mannikin  from  a  humble  seat  in  the  gallery 
of  the  House.  At  a  distance  Tallien  showed  off  the  cut 
of  his  coat  very  well  indeed.  Sometimes  the  discreet  valet 
would  tremble  for  the  sleeves.  Tallien  had  a  way  of 
emphasizing  his  oratory  by  very  wide  gestures.  No  decent 
coat  will  stand  gestures  worthy  of  a  prize-fighter.  As  we 
all  know,  gentlemen  of  the  ring,  when  professionally  en- 
gaged, leave  their  coats  behind  them.  Tallien,  contrary 
to  rules,  entered  the  arena  dressed  like  a  dandy  showing 
himself  off  at  a  flower-show. 

Pierre  gently  adjusted  his  master's  rather  wide  coat- 
skirts.  In  other  words,  he  gave  them  a  pull,  and  stepped 
back  to  appreciate  the  effect. 

"Excellent,"  he  mummred.  "I  like  that  seam  straight 
idown  the  centre  of  the  back.  And  that  little  touch  of 
embroidery  on  the  collar — though  daring — is  very  ele- 
gant." 

In  truth,  this  morning  of  27th  July,  1794  (old  style), 
Citoyen  Tallien  cut  a  very  dashing  figure.  His  new  boots 
shone;  his  silver  waistcoat  shone — at  two  louis  a  yard; 
his  large  face  shone  with  soap  and  perspiration.  It  was 
a  very  hot  morning^  and  friend  Tallien's  thoughts  matched 
the  day,  if  they  didn't  actually  out-rival  it. 

Tallien  breathed  a  deep,  excessively  unctuous  sigh. 

"Give  me  that  little  box,"  he  drawled,  "in  the  left-hand 
iirawer,  Pierre.     Don't  be  an  arrant  ass,  man." 

His  man  immediately  produced  the  right  article.  (He'd 
looked  at  it  often.)  He  blew  an  imaginary  grain  of  dust 
off  the  lid,  as  he  handed  the  box  to  Tallien. 

Tallien  snapped  open  the  cover  and  took  out  a  little 
Bagger  and  stroked  it  as  he  might  have  stroked  the  back 
of  a  playful  kitten. 

"As  a  curiosity,  citoyen,"  ventured  his  man,  watching 
the  dagger,  "that  is  a  nice  little  trifle.  Personally  I 
Ti^ouldn't  trust  it  the  length  of  my  arm." 

Tallien,  still  stroking  the  dagger  very  tenderly,  agreed. 


TERROR  349 

''Presently  it  will  not  only  be  a  curiosity  but  also  an 
object  of  historical  value,"  he  said. 

"Indeed,  sir?" 

"It  is  a  pretty  little  thing,  a  very  pretty  little  thing." 

"Yes,  monseigneur." 

Tallien  did  not  observe  the  slip  of  a  title.  And  if  he 
(did  it  did  not  worry  liim — on  the  contrary,  he  had  all  a 
plutocrat's  love  of  rank,  and  considered  himself  deserving 
of  the  best.  This  morning  he  looked  upon  every  omen  as 
felicitous. 

"I  am  rather  superstitious,  myself,  sir,"  said  Pierre. 

"Yes,"  said  Tallien,  slipping  his  dagger  into  his  coat 
pocket.  "Most  people  are.  I  must  say,  I'd  rather  carry 
a  mascot  than  go  without  one." 

*'Yes,  sir." 

"Especially  if  it  comes  from  a  lovely  lady.  Lovely 
ladies  are  very  powerful.  They've  got  their  secret  spells 
and  charms — I  don't  blame  'em.     No,  I  don't." 

"Very  natural,"  said  Pierre. 

"By  the  way,  you  can  have  that  plum-colored  suit. 
I've  done  with  it." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  There  is  a  bit  of  lace  on  it  which  I 
shall  remove." 

Tallien  waved  his  hand.  "Keep  it,"  he  said  magnifi- 
cently. 

Pierre,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart,  bowed  deeply,  and 
presented  his  master  with  a  scented  handkerchief.  Tallien 
sniffed  at  it  before  putting  it  in  his  pocket — rather  a 
vulgar  sniff.  Then  he  stared  critically  at  his  tall  reflection 
in  the  tall  mirror. 

"You'll  do,"  he  said  jocularly,  smiling  at  his  splendid 
hat,  trying  it  on  at  a  jaunty  angle,  on  his  well- greased 
locks.  Yes,  he  was  pleased  with  his  appearance.  If  it 
wasn't  undignified  we'd  liken  him  to  a  showy  brass  top, 
wound  up  to  its  highest  velocity.  Yes,  he  was  spinning 
very  fast;  spinning  in  the  right  direction,  too.  Nothing 
could  stop  him  now  from  doing  his  duty.     Presently — to 


350  TORCHLIGHT 

carry  the  metaphor  further — he  was  bound  to  slow  down, 
and  spin  on  his  side. 

"Look  in  at  the  House,  if  you  care  to,  Pierre,  this  morn- 
ing.    I  expect  we'll  have  an  interesting  debate." 

His  condescension,  his  affabiHty,  his  generosity — all 
jogged  together  for  pride  o'  place.  Tallien  (in  his  own 
estimation)   exceeded  himself  this  morning. 

"I  thank  you,  sir.'* 

*'Don't  mention  it." 

Treading  very  lightly,  Tallien  advanced  into  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  struck  an  attitude  of  conscious  elegance 
before  the  full-length  mirror  (very  suggestive  of  the  last 
phase  of  the  brass  top),  raising  his  right  arm  dramati- 
cally, as  if  saluting  an  unseen  presence. 

"Terezia,"  he  said.  "Your  very  obedient  servant, 
ma'am." 

The  address  was  brief,  and  mystifying  on  the  whole. 
The  discreet  manservant,  figuratively  speaking,  stuffed 
his  cars  with  cotton-wool.     He  never  presumed. 

Tallien,  neither  remembering  his  indiscretion  nor  ignor- 
ing it, — stiU  treading  on  air — took  the  shortest  way  to 
the  House.  As  he  walked  he  whistled  a  delightful  tune, 
yet  not  loud  enough  to  court  attention. 

The  fine  weather  had  attracted  quite  a  crowd  of  people 
out  of  doors. 

All  was  commotion  in  the  dusty  lobby  of  the  House. 
Members  stood  about  in  congested,  excited  groups,  ap- 
parently all  talking  at  once,  and  paying  not  the  least 
attention  to  each  other. 

Into  this  galere  walked  Tallien — attractive  as  a  honey- 
cake  to  a  swarm  of  wasps.  From  his  sweet  expression 
you  might  have  supposed  that  he'd  have  liked  to  embrace 
the  company  collectively  and  individually. 

However,  he  restricted  himself  to  shaking  hands  with 
some  dozen  of  his  immediate  friends  and  supporters ;  nor 
did  he  escape  some  gentle  raillery  on  his  smart  appearance, 

'Are  you  going  to  a  wedding,  citoyenV* 

*No;  are  you.'*" 


". 

«7 


TERROR  351 

(When  a  popular  hero  makes  the  slightest  jest  it  is 
always  received  with  a  perfect  salvo  of  laughter.) 

"Get  along — you  artful  dodger!  Show  us  your  bag  of 
tricks !"  said  the  humorist. 

"Presently,  presently,"  said  Tallien  significantly,  tap- 
ping his  coat  pocket. 

"What  a  collar!"  cried  an  ecstatic  voice  in  the  crowd. 
"No,  no,  look  at  the  back,  citoyen!  Did  you  ever  see  a 
more  faithful  reproduction?     It  is  a  work  of  art."    - 

"Most  excellently  well  done.  Two  mandarins  and  four 
green  leaves.     Quite  an  idea!" 

They  surged  lovingly  around  him,  his  admiring  friends. 
If  his  coat-collar  had  been  embroidered  with  four  carrots 
and  six  green  leaves,  they  would  have  been  just  as  en- 
chanted— just  as  outspoken  in  their  praise.  None  envied 
Tallien.     All  admired  him. 

Through  the  high,  uncurtained  windows  the  brilliant 
July  sun  streamed  down  on  this  body  of  representative 
men — searching  out  Talhen  for  particular  attention. 

In  the  glare  of  the  light  his  greasy  black  hair  shone 
like  ebony,  and  his  full  lips  were  like  a  pair  of  crushed 
pomegranate  petals — very  red,  and  rather  cracked.  Had 
he  a  touch  of  fever — eh? 

Tallien  rubbed  his  hands  and  looked  around  at  the 
crowd.     "Has  he  arrived?"  he  asked  a  stout  legislator. 

"Half  an  hour  ago.  He  ran  through  the  lobby  like  a 
scuttling  beetle — looking  neither  to  right  nor  left.  ILq 
Brun  called  out,  *Good  morning,  Citoyen  Robespierre.' 
He  had  not  the  heart  or  the  nerve  to  answer  him."  (The 
fat  man  pinched  Tallien's  arm.)  "In  a  funk,  my  man, 
a  blue  devil  of  a  funk!  You  will  be  able  to  rat  him  out 
as  easily  as  Saint-Just  drones  to  empty  benches." 

"They  will  be  full  presently,"  observed  Tallien  signifi- 
cantly, looking  through  the  half-open  doors  leading  to  the 
hall. 

In  truth  Saint-Just  was  delivering  a  dry-as-dusl  ora- 
tion to  a  poor  audience.  The  President — in  due  obser- 
vance of  his  duty — was  seated  in  his  tribune,  which  was 


g52  ^TORCHLIGHT 

reached  by  a  flight  of  steps.  On  his  table  stood  a  bell. 
TaUien  also  caught  a  glimpse  of  Citoyen  Robespierre,  in 
his  usual  place,  on  the  cross  benches,  facing  Saint-Just. 

"Look  at  him,"  said  the  fat  man.  "I'U  bet  you  a  thou- 
sand sheep  his  ears  are  twitching — and  his  eyes  are  glued 
on  the  floor,  and  his  fingers  are  working.  He  is  playing 
icat's-cradle  with  his  thumbs — a  last  desperate  resource 
to  appear  at  his  ease." 

An  immense  smile  lit  Talllen's  face.  You  might  have 
[thought  he'd  walked  round  the  clock,  stealing  a  couple  of 
hours  in  advance  of  Time.  That  he  was  not  contemplating 
la  big  coup,  but  that  he  had  actually  carried  it  off,  by  an 
overwhelming  majority. 

"Poor  wee  mite,"  said  Tallien  with  exquisite  Irony. 

His  absurd  expression  was  received  with  tumultuous 
laughter. 

"Poor  wee  mite,"  echoed  a  wit,  who  lived  by  flattering 
Imitation. 

Tallien  smiled  kindly  at  the  young  man. 

"Now  tell  me,"  he  said  earnestly,  "of  last  night's  pro- 
fceedings  ?  I  haven't  so  far  heard  anything  but  a  garbled 
Version  of  the  affair.  The  wretched  monster  seems  to 
have  exceeded  himself." 

Tliis  quick  descriptive  change  of  the  same  objest  wor- 
ried the  Repeating  Wit.  He  had,  however,  sufficient  wit  to 
realize  that  if  he  called  out  "wretched  monster"  the  re- 
mark would  have  been  an  artistic  failure.  So  he  gloomily 
held  his  tongue  and  gloomily  sucked  the  head  of  his  cane. 

The  fat  man  raised  his  hands.  "A  shockin'  exhibition," 
he  said.  "I  was  present  all  the  evenin'  at  the  Jacobins' 
Club.  Why,  the  man  frightened  me!  I  tell  you,  for  a 
pair  of  chestnuts  he  would  have  committed  suicide.  Ravin' 
mad !  Shrieked  like  an  owl,  caught  in  a  blazing  bam.  His 
usual  gimcrack  nonsense,  his  incorruptibleness,  his  integ- 
rity— the  Supreme  Being " 

"I  know,"  said  Tallien. 

The  fat  man  caught  his  breath — delighted  at  his  own 
eloquence. 


TERROR  353 

*TIis  pet  crony,  David,  the  artist,  took  him  off  at  last. 
Thej  sobbed  in  each  other's  arms — mighty  grand.  'Let  us 
drink  hemlock  together,*  said  pal  David.  Here,  brother 
Augustin — you  know,  Robespierre  the  younger — asked  to 
share  his  brother's  fate.  All  three  jabbered  like  monkeys, 
and  implored  the  privilege  of  dying  to  vindicate  their 
honor — Vive  la  Reptobliquel'* 

"Might  oblige  'em — at  a  pinch,"  said  Tallien,  looking 
round  at  his  vastly  increased  audience. 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  crowd. 

*'Rip  along,  Tallien,"  said  a  voice.  "There  is  nothing 
worse  than  uncertainty." 

*'David  bolted  this  morning,'*  volunteered  a  member. 

''Sensible  fellow,"  said  Tallien. 

The  fat  man  held  up  a  fat  hand.  "A  pity  you  missed 
it — bar  none,  the  liveliest  bit  of  excitement  we  have  had 
lately — and  we've  been  spoiled — eh?" 

Tallien  nodded. 

*'Things  reached  a  climax  when  his  godship  tried  to 
read  his  speech,  the  one  we  declined  to  listen  to  on  Wednes- 
day— 'member  ?" 

Tallien  nodded. 

"An  infernal  din.  We  behaved  damned  well.  We 
jumped  and  howled  and  whistled  and  groaned — you  never 
heard  such  a  devil  of  a  noise.  Some  ripped  the  seats  off 
the  benches  and  others  started  kickin'  the  walls — nervy 
gentlemen  dodging  here  and  there,  like  jumping- frogs. 
Lecoulteux — smart  little  chap — let  off  the  fireworks, 
genuine,  sir,  crackin'  rockets  under  his  blue  nose — raisin' 
smoke,  raisin'  blue  flames — raisin'  the  wind." 

Tallien  nodded. 

"He  had  a  lively  send-off,  you  bet.  The  little  cur  was 
not  dished  by  smoke  or  fire,  nor  noise,  nor  anything.  He 
backed  his  own  authority,  tried  to  howl  us  down — blasted 
impertinence! — his  lungs  working  like  bellows,  his  face 
scarlet  with  mortification.  'I  demand !'  he  shrieked.  'I 
demand!'  Who  cares  a  tinker's  curse  what  he  demanded? 
At  length,  as  I  told  you,  David  hustled  him  out  of  the 


354  TORCHLIGHT, 

room — a  sulphurous  beggar — the  tears  pouring  down  his 
face.  Never  saw  such  a  heavenly  sight!  A  burst  water- 
pipe  spluttering  at  the  main.    Little  Max  burst  to  pieces !" 

The  speaker  paused  to  wipe  the  saliva  off  his  mouth 
with  a  yellow  handkerchief, 

"Every  word  is  gospel  truth,"  he  added ;  "every  word." 

Tallien  slid  his  hand  through  the  fat  man's  arm. 

"Shall  we  go  in.P"  he  asked.  "My  friends" — he  turned 
and  faced  his  audience,  "I  reckon  on  your  support." 

"We  are  with  you  heart  and  soul,"  said  Paul  Barras, 

A  great  big  word  squeaked,  as  usual,  in  Tallien's  throat 
before  it  flew,  gloriously  free,  over  his  large  red  lips — a 
brilliant,  audacious  word. 

Inside  the  hall  he  dropped  the  fat  man's  arm  and  walked 
alone  up  the  gangway  to  his  seat,  opposite  Robespierre, 
followed  at  some  distance  by  his  supporters.  Each 
man  filed  into  his  place.  Saint-Just  broke  off  his  speech 
to  give  Tallien  a  smile,  as  he  sat  down  beside  him.  Tallien 
glanced  at  Citoyen  Robespierre,  apparently  deeply  en- 
grossed by  his  boots — the  man  who  had  given  him  his  first 
bag  of  gold. 

Robespierre,  without  looking  up,  felt  that  Tallien  had 
entered  the  hall,  and  that  he  had  honored  him  with  his 
recognition.  He  lifted  his  throbbing,  aching  head  and 
nodded.  The  two  men  stared  at  each  other.  Across  the 
hall  they  stared  at  each  other — measuring  each  other's 
weakness.  In  Robespierre's  blurred,  troubled  mind  all  that 
he  could  take  hold  of  was  Tallien's  flashy  waistcoat.  The 
silver  tissue  gleamed  like  a  coat  of  mail.  And  all  that 
mattered  to  Tallien  was  Robespierre's  evident  fatigue. 
He  had  no  fight  left  in  him. 

Saint-Just  could  no  longer  complain  of  poor  attention. 
In  that  packed  hall  you  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop — so 
intense  was  the  silence,  broken  by  one  man's  sing-song 
utterance. 

Five  minutes  elapsed.  The  great  round-faced,  white- 
faced  clock,  over  the  President's  chair,  ticked  out  the 
flying  seconds.   .  .  .  Another  five  minutes  passed,  devoted 


TERROR  355 

to  a  statistical  statement  of  excessive  dryness,  which  no 
one  heard.  There  were  flies  in  the  big  haU,  a  shaft  of 
sunlight,  three  hundred  determined  men,  and  one  man 
whose  heart  ran  amuck. 

Tallien  slipped  his  right  hand  into  his  coat-pocket. 

Suddenly,  with  an  impassioned  gesture,  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  and,  holding  a  dagger  in  his  hand,  he  cut  Saint-Just 
short  in  his  peroration. 

"Citoyen  President,  I  demand  a  hearing!"  he  cried. 

A  murmur  ran  across  the  packed  benches.  Every  eye 
was  turned  on  Tallien.  Robespierre  ceased  to  play  cat*s- 
cradle  and  gave  him  his  whole  attention. 

The  President  bent  forward  and  touched  his  bell.  He 
had  intimated  that  the  House  was  ready  to  listen  to 
Citoyen  Tallien. 

Tallien  stood  upright,  every  nerve  in  his  large  body 
working  at  high  pressure.  The  revolution — and  un- 
dreamed-of-honors— held  him  taut  as  a  ramrod.  His 
words  gushed  strongly.  His  indictment,  one  flood  of 
eloquence,  was  cruelly  direct.  At  every  word  the  tumult 
increased.  Men  howled  their  assent — hats  waved  in  the 
air — handkerchiefs,  red,  yellow  and  blue,  fluttered  as 
butterflies  dance  in  the  sun.  Tallien's  arms  gesticulated 
wildly.  He  pointed  the  dagger  at  the  scapegoat — a 
cowering,  terrified,  mouthing  scapegoat,  lately  dubbed  the 
Supreme  Being. 

*'I  denounce  the  traitor!"  he  cried.  *'I  denounce  Robes- 
pierre. Look  at  him',  men  of  France !  His  very  face 
admits  his  own  guilty  actions.  To  the  guillotine  with 
Robespierre !" 

Then  his  voice  dropped — it  took  a  downward  note — a 
note  of  anguish. 

*'Think  of  the  others,"  he  said.  "The  innocent  \actims 
suffering  for  his  abominable  crimes!  Shall  he  go  free.'' 
O  brothers  in  mercy — consider  the  women." 

His  eyes  flew  the  round  of  the  hall,  and  discovered  tears ; 
then  they  returned  to  face  the  President,  who  had  risen 
from  his  seat,  jangling  his  little  bell. 


356  TORCHLIGHT 

Talllen  sat  down. 

On  the  steps  leading  to  the  presidential  tribune  a  little 
man,  a  trembling  little  man,  with  damp,  lank  hair,  and  a 
pitiable  expression  on  his  ghastly  face,  was  running  up 
and  down.  His  action  was  strangely  suggestive  of  a  small 
boy  at  play — who  simply  runs  up  and  down  the  stairs 
to  please  himself.  Yet  this  strange  little  man — so  hid- 
eously and  mightily  transformed — was  acting  quite  un- 
consciously. 

"Men  of  France,'*  he  squealed — turning  and  facing  a 
sea  of  enraged  faces,  "I  am  innocent  of  all  the  charges 
brought  against  me!     I  can  defend  myself.     I  .  .  ." 

And  all  the  time  that  little  silver  bell  was  ringing  shrilly 
— against  him.  There  was  no  mercy  in  the  House  for 
Robespierre. 

He  tumbled  down  the  stairs.  Giddily,  swaying  to  and 
fro,  he  hurried  down  the  gangway. 

"Attention!     Attention!"  he  called. 

The  little  bell  rang  convulsively. 

"I  accept  the  decree  against  Robespierre,"  called  the 
President.  "I  arrest  him  in  the  name  of  Liberty,  Frater- 
nity and  Equality." 

The  ushers  at  the  door  stared  aghast  at  each  other. 
They  hardly  dared  obey  their  orders. 

"Ah!"  shrieked 'Robespierre.  "Let  go  of  me!  Citizens, 
as  God  lives,  you  are  laboring  under  a  grave  delusion.  I 
denounce  Tallien,  the  arch-traitor!" 

The  bell  rang  again. 

"Carry  him  out,"  said  the  President. 

"To  prison — to  prison!"  shouted  the  House  as  one 
voice. 

"No,  try  him  at  once!"  cried  a  dissentient  member. 

Up  rose  Tallien.  "Citoyen  President,  I  move  a  petition 
in  the  name  of  law  and  order  that  from  to-day  no  sus- 
pected individuals  are  imprisoned.  And  that  all  suspected 
persons  are  to  be  set  at  liberty." 

A  deafening  roar  reached  Robespierre  as,  bound,  dis- 


TERROR  357 

figured,  bleeding,  he  was  hustled  into  a  common  cab — a 
condemned  man. 

All  the  church  bells  jangled  and  pealed.  All  Paris  was 
agog  with  excitement.  The  news  of  Robespierre's  down- 
fall spread  like  wildfire.  Joy  is  as  contagious  as  tears. 
Strangers  fell  on  each  other's  necks  and  wept  for  happi- 
ness. On  the  morning  following  Robespierre's  arrest,  men 
and  women  laughed  aloud  and  danced  together  in  the 
public  streets. 

In  the  midst  of  this  hurly-burly,  down  the  Rue  La- 
fayette there  came  in  sight  a  sorry  procession.  Mean 
carts  they  were,  packed  close  with  worthless  lives — that's 
to  say  they  had  been  worthless  yesterday — to-day  they 
were  infinitely  precious.  Fervent  Samaritans — of  both 
sexes — surrounded  the  carts  and  would  have  draffeed  the 
dazed  prisoners  out  of  the  jaws  of  death.  Words  of  pity, 
of  consolation,  of  tenderness  ran  like  milk  down  the 
crowded  street.  "This  shall  not  be,"  they  said.  "Be  at 
liberty,  brothers.  Take  courage,  sisters.'*  The  jailers 
in  charge — who  had  had  no  fresh  orders — beat  the  people 
back.  The  carts,  with  their  amazed  load  of  humanity, 
moved  on.  It  is  sad  to  note  that,  in  spite  of  protest,  the 
guillotine  woi-ked  at  regulation  speed  on  the  morning 
following  Robespierre's  indictment.  Galloping  horsemen 
scattered  the  crowds.  Galloping  horsemen  surrounded  the 
grim  prisons  (by  order).  Orders — counter-orders  were 
given  and  received  with  astonishing  rapidity.  Food  for 
thought,  rich  as  a  harvest  in  Siberia.  .  .  .  Men  chattered 
and  laughed  on  the  verge  of  lunacy.  Not  one  really  sane 
man  lived  that  day  in  Paris ! 

It  all  happened — and  gospel  truth  it  Is. 

At  night  the  sky  was  lit  by  a  -feti  d£  joie.  The  bells, 
the  rejoicing  bells,  rang  under  livid  skies. 

"  'Tis  the  end,"  they  said,  "the  end  of  iniquity.' 


jj 


Robespierre  passed  the  night  strapped  to  a  table — his 
back  to  the  jeers  of  his  jailers.     How  they  had  laughed 


358  TORCHLIGHT 

at  the  great  little  man !  They  had  taunted  his  godship — 
they  had  jeered  at  his  blue  vestments — at  his  trousers  of 
white  nankeen,  at  his  face  all  forlorn,  nay,  his  face  all 
anguished !     This  was  terror  ! 

By  morning  he  sat  up,  all  of  a  heap — a  bullet  wound, 
ugly  and  bleeding,  ploughing  his  left  jaw,  breaking  it 
clean;  his  mouth  hanging  open,  like  a  broken  toy.  He 
had  failed  to  die.  He  had  only  robbed  himself  of  speech. 
He  could  still  feel  pain,  dishonor,  defeat.  ...  So  they 
brought  him  into  the  light — side  by  side  with  his  nasty 
brother  (he  who,  trying  to  escape,  fell  into  a  cesspool, 
to  be,  presently,  fished  out).  Together  in  a  common 
tumbril  they  jolted  through  Paris. 

Someone  had  bound  Robespierre's  jaw  with  a  dirty 
white  rag — there  were  crimson  patches  on  it.  His  eyes 
were  very  dumb.  It  was  the  end  of  all  things.  Behind 
him,  in  front  of  him,  and  around  him  there  surged  a 
triumphant  and  curious  crowd. 

"It  is  Robespierre,"  they  said.  "Look,  my  friend — • 
it  is  Robespierre !" 

The  bells  rang  loudly.  ,  .  , 

Down  familiar  streets  he  journeyed. 

La  Gmllotine  had  moved  back  to  her  old  place.  Once 
again  she  stood,  in  the  brilliant  sunshine,  on  the  Place  de 
la  Revolution, — waiting. 

The  whole  world  waited.  At  the  very  end  the  world 
held  her  breath. 

They  hurried  him  up  on  the  platform  and  gave  him 
over  to  Samson. 

A  man  pulled  at  his  bandage.  Robespierre's  broken 
jaw  fell  down,  revealing  a  shattered,  terrifying  face, 
strangely  familiar. 

His  godship  pealed  a  hideous,  unnatural  shriek.  He 
was  held  down  ...  he  was  dead. 


CHAPTER    XLV 

'TpHE  spider  hung  motionless  in  his  own  net  surrounded 
■^  bj  prison  flies.  He  was  no  longer  interesting.  Alive 
he  had  distracted  the  ladies.  They  would  tap  their  ele- 
gant fingers,  straining  every  nerve  to  reach  the  little  dirty 
window,  barred  by  iron  and  filmy  cobwebs.  To  reach  the 
window  they  had  to  stand  on  the  chair,  balancing  them- 
selves on  the  tips  of  their  miserable  shoes — such  deplora- 
ble shoes — in  a  vain  effort  to  annoy  the  busy  spider.  He 
gave  them  never  a  wink.  He  had  his  spider  eyes  fixed 
on  flies,  a  numberless  host  at  Les  Cannes — and  not  on  the 
prisoners. 

For  the  last  hour  or  so  Josephine  had  languidly  amused 
herself  by  ridiculing  Terezia's  valiant  and  fruitless  effort 
to  reach  a  vulnerable  spot  in  Tallien's  "lion  heart." 

Her  passionate  appeal  to  her  lover  had  been  made  in 
vain.  It  hadn't  achieved  its  purpose ;  neither  her  letters 
nor  her  toy  dagger,  dramatically  tied  with  a  piece  of  pink 
satin  ribbon  (quite  a  clean  piece,  too),  had  been  of  any 
effect. 

*'Helas!"  said  Josephine,  "you  can  bet  your  handker- 
chief— it  is  only  half  a  one — that  he  flung  your  symbolic 
dagger  into  a  handy  drawer,  and  that  by  now  he  has  for- 
gotten its  existence.  No  doubt  he  read  your  letters,  and 
no  doubt  he  kissed  them  affectionately.  Kisses  are  utterly 
worthless  in  the  wrong  places.  Nasty  brute!  I  wouldn't 
wonder  if  each  time  you  wrote,  as  a  sign  of  sympathy  he 
ate  an  extra  nice  supper.  Hot  soup,  fish,  roast  beef, 
jelhes,  and  those  little  cream  tarts  which  I  love.  We 
won't  forgive  him  the  tarts  in  a  hurry,  baked  to  perfec- 
tion, with  a  dash  of  rum  and  a  thought  of  sugar.  N'est-ce 
pas,  cherie.'"' 

359 


360  TORCHLIGHT 

Josephine  turned,  with  her  brilliant  eyes  aglow,  to  the 
duchess  for  sympathy.  Terezia  was  looking  mulish, 
staring  at  the  opposite  wall.  Her  silence  was  almost  as 
oppressive  as  the  heat.  After  all,  poor  girl,  she  had  done 
her  best.  But  she  needn't  have  been  so  cocksure  of  her 
man.  A  born  coward  is  not  easily  turned  into  a  daunt- 
less hero.  After  all,  Tallien  was  only  a  lackey's  son.  No 
one  could  say  that  his  ancestors  were  fapious. 

The  duchess  smiled  and  assured  Josephine  her  recipe 
for  the  cream  tarts  was  quite  correct.  She  nodded  her 
little  curly  head  to  give  emphasis  to  her  statement.  The 
good  God  had  given  the  duchess  hair  which  curled  natur- 
ally even  under  the  most  trying  conditions. 

She  had  had  a  severe  attack  of  prison  fever,  but  was 
now  convalescent,  though  woefully  thin.  The  prison  diet 
grew  from  bad  to  worse.  Prison  routine,  though  of 
monotonous  regularity,  was  none  the  less  heart-breaking. 
Josephine  said  the  dramatic  element  saved  them  from 
madness.  Would  their  names  stand  on  the  fatal  list? 
That  was  always  a  question  of  some  little  interest.  Mad- 
ness was  worse  than  fleas,  she'd  declare,  and  far  worse 
than  physical  discomfort  and  dirt.  Fcmte  de  mieuXy  they 
could  always  cultivate  their  minds. 

She  was  wise,  was  Josephine.  Ninon  was  good.  Terezia 
was  impatient. 

For  eight  months,  eight  intolerably  long  months,  these 
tired  women  (Terezia  excepted,  she'd  only  been  eight 
weeks  at  Les  Carmes)  had  watched  and  waited  and  hoped, 
and  seen  too  much  of  each  other.  By  now  they  knew  each 
other's  stock  phrases.  They  knew  each  other's  faults, 
and  they  had  glimpsed — without  great  satisfaction — each 
other's  good  qualities. 

Josephine  addressed  her  conversation  exclusively  to  the 
duchess.  Then  she  pillowed  her  head  upon  Ninon's  knees 
and  shut  her  eyes  and  sighed,  and  looked  up  and  sighed 
again,  and  went  to  sleep. 

Ninon  took  out  of  her  pocket  a  tiny  calf-bound  volume 
and  began  to  read.     She  had  read  the  book  many  times. 


TERROR  361 

Terezia  did  not  try  to  conceal  her  bitter  disappoint- 
ment. At  this  moment  nothing  would  have  given  her  so 
much  pleasure  as  to  plunge  her  toy  dagger  into  the 
cowardly  heart  of  her  lover,  Tallien.  Ugh !  how  she  hated 
him ;  his  immense  smile ;  his  immense  conceit ;  his  lowborn, 
thieving  instincts.    Was  there  ever  such  a  dirty  swine? 

She  shivered.  .  .  . 

And  he  had  kissed  her  mouth  (her  incomparable  mouth)  ; 
he  had  held  her  in  his  arms  (her  incomparable  self).  Even 
now  her  crowning  characteristic  asserted  itself.  She 
would  die  game.     She  would  die  vain! 

And  yet — the  vast  pity  of  death. 

Life  was  glorious.  She  was  so  young,  and  so  entirely 
capable  of  enjoying  herself  to  the  uttermost.  If  Tallien 
only  proved  himself  a  man — or  a  fair  imitation  of  one — 
she  swore,  with  quick  revulsion  of  feeling,  that  she  wouldn't 
let  him  go  unrewarded.  She  would  thrill  him  by  her 
exquisite  tenderness.  She  would  worship  him  with  her 
body  and  soul.  She  would  be  his  slave,  his  creature,  his 
toy.  ... 

From  far,  far  off  there  came  a  murmur  of  voices.  A 
heavy  door  banged  below.     Someone  screamed. 

*'0h !"  said  Josephine,  waking  up  and  complaining  of  a 
stiff  neck.  "Your  fine  lover,  Terezia,  has  very  sensibly 
gone  to  bed  on  top  of  that  fine  supper.  The  little  dagger 
is  no  longer  picturesque,  devoid  of  hope.  Chance  is  the 
most  decorative  and  romantic  element  in  life.  (Oh,  I'm 
so  deadly  hungry!)  Plus  que  Reine  .  .  .  helas,  helas, 
I  am  so  disappointed  in  my  darling  old  witch.  A  young 
girl  will  believe  anything  nice  when  the  sky  is  blue,  to 
match  her  lover's  eyes.  My  first  affair  was  a  sailor,  a 
most  adorable  English  sailor.  All  the  month  of  May  his 
ship  lay  at  anchor  in  the  bay  of  St.  Pierre.  I  taught  him 
six  Creole  love-songs.  He  had  a  voice  to  shame  a  night- 
ingale. I  was  seventeen  and  hadn't  a  care  in  the  world — 
helas,  helas!" 

Terezia  stopped  Josephine's  lamenting  with  an  impera- 
tive gesture.     Something  was  happening !     She  sprang  to 


362  TORCHLIGHT 

her  feet,  and  with  all  her  force  she  rattled  the  handle 
of  the  barred  door. 

"The  place  may  be  on  fire,"  she  said.  "They  must 
open  the  door." 

Les  Cannes,  habitually  a  place  of  silence,  had  grown 
suddenly  noisy.  Heavy  footsteps  came  down  the  echoing, 
immense  passage.  They  could  hear  men  arguing  and 
women  sobbing.     And  the  great  beU  rang. 

"Let  us  out,  for  Christ's  sake!  let  us  out!"  called 
Josephine,  with  a  sob  in  her  throat.  She  also  rattled  the 
door. 

Terezia  turned  round  and  drew  herself  up  to  her  full 
height. 

"It  is  freedom,"  she  said.  "France  is  saved,  and  Tal- 
lien  is  the  greatest  man  in  the  world,  and  I  love  him." 

"Who  wouldn't  love  him!"  said  Josephine  impatiently, 
hurling  the  chair  against  the  door.  "This  delay  is  in- 
tolerable! Wliere  is  Joseph .?  Too  bad  of  Joseph  not  to 
remember  us !  I  will  scold  him  severely.  There  is  another 
bell.  Listen !  More  bells.  It  is  a  beautiful  summer  even- 
ing. With  any  luck  we  will  get  home  in  time  for  late 
dinner.  My  dear,"  she  reached  up  and  kissed  Terezia, 
"all  my  life  I  will  remember  you.  What  sufferings  we 
have  endured  together !  .  .  .  Ten  thousand  devils !  Open 
the  door!" 

Terezia  smoothed  her  hair,  and  drew  together  an  obvious 
rent  in  her  bodice. 

"Ninon,  lend  me  your  lace  scarf,  there's  a  darling.  You 
look  a  picture  as  it  is." 

The  duchess  was  on  her  knees,  at  the  foot  of  their 
wretched  bed,  saying  her  prayers.  "God,  I  thank  Thee," 
she  murmured.     "God,  I  thank  Thee  for  all  Thy  mercies." 

Terezia  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  thought  the 
prayer  both  exaggerated  and  premature. 

The  cell  door  was  flung  open. 

"You  are  at  liberty,"  called  a  surly  turnkey.  "Robes- 
pierre is  dead,  or  practically  dead.  There  is  such  a  hub- 
bub and  confusion  down  below,  no  one  really  understands 


TERROR  363 

what  has  happened.  Anyhow,  all  prisoners  are  to  be 
released.     Out  you  go.     Better  make  haste." 

And  the  surly  turnkey  (a  real  angel)  vanished  with  a 
heavy  tread  down  the  stone  corridor,  jingling  an  immense 
bunch  of  keys. 

The  ladies  stared  at  each  other.  The  news  was  rather 
staggering,  you  know.  Robespierre  accused,  condemned, 
dead !  Long  live  Tallien !  What  a  man — what  a  glory  of 
a  man! 

They  drove  away  together  in  a  ramshackle  conveyance, 
laughing,  talking,  and  questioning  the  polite  Joseph  up 
to  the  very  last.  How  had  it  all  come  about?  Had  all 
the  prisoners  been  released?  Who  was  at  the  head  of 
affairs?  Wasn't  the  air  lovely?  Weren't  there  many 
people  about?  And  why  did  they  stare?  Why  were  some 
crying?     Did  they  look  so  very  dreadful? 

Joseph,  having  assisted  the  ladies  into  the  coach,  and 
given  the  driver  his  orders,  answered  as  well  as  he  could 
their  inquiries. 

"Good-by,  dear  M.  Joseph,"  said  Josephine.  "Your 
kindness  has  been  invaluable.  Are  you  perfectly  sure 
that  all  these  terrible  men  have  been  guillotined?" 

"No,  madam,  I  am  perfectly  certain  Citoyen  Tallien. 
lives." 

"But  of  course,  he  is  the  hero  of  the  hour!    But  for  his 

splendid    courage "    she   shuddered,      "Look   there    is 

Mme.  de  la  Tremoille.     And  poor  Mme.  Victoire." 

A  group  of  prisoners  were  slowly,  with  uncertain  foot- 
steps, coming  across  the  unevenly  paved  prison  yard. 
They  looked  like  spectres  in  the  evening  light — ragged 
spectres. 

Mme.  de  la  Tremoille  had  lost  her  husband  and  both 
her  children.  Out  of  all  her  family  she  alone  had  been 
spared  the  death  penalty.  She  walked  with  her  splendid 
upright  carriage  towards  the  gate,  assisting  a  younger 
lady  (who  nevertheless  had  snow-white  hair).  The 
younger  lady  was   talking  volubly,   telling  everyone  she 


364  TORCHLIGHT 

met  that,  within  a  few  hours,  she'd  have  the  happiness 
of  embracing  her  children,  who  were  safe  in  the  country. 

"Poor  dear,"  said  Josephine.  "As  I  told  you,  Terezia, 
madness  is  far  worse  than  fleas.  Her  suffering  has  de- 
prived her  of  her  reason.  When  her  mother  and  children 
died  of  fever,  just  after  her  husband  was  guillotined,  she 
went  mad.  She  is  quite  tractable,  poor  dear,  but,  as  you 
see,  quite  mad.  Her  eyes  are  horrid.  Don't  look  at  her. 
I  wish  they  could  kill  Robespierre  twice  over.  Joseph, 
Joseph!     Was  he  brave?" 

"I  was  not  present  at  the  arrest,  madam." 

"I  don't  mean  him.     How  did  Tallien  behave?" 

"We  must  be  going,"  said  Terezia.  "Good-by,  M. 
Joseph.  I'll  send  you  a  card  with  the  exact  dates.  Re- 
member you've  promised  to  come  to  my  receptions." 

"And.  to  mine  also,"  said  Josephine.  "And  tell  your 
nice  brother  to  bring  his  friend,  the  little  general.  What 
was  his  name?" 

"Napoleon  Bonaparte." 

"Oh,  I  remember;  a  clever  Corsican  officer,  with  heaps 
of  brothers  and  sisters,  and  still  more  ambitions.  Do  you 
think  he  wiU  succeed  in  getting  everything  he  wants?" 

"Possibly." 

"How  I  envy  him,"  said  Terezia. 

"Please  tell  the  man  to  drive  on,"  said  the  duchess. 

*'I  know,"  said  Terezia.     "I'll  marry  him." 

"And  leave  Tallien  out  in  the  cold !"  screamed  Josephine. 
"Isn't  she  a  pig?  Joseph,  I  quite  forgot.  If  you  should 
meet  M.  de  Beauharnais  before  I  do,  give  him  my  love 
and  address.  I  am  going  to  stay  with  Aunt  Fanny.  In 
future  I  intend  to  love  him  witb  all  my  heart.  He  de- 
serves nothing  less.  I  am  so  happy.  Are  we  really  free? 
Is  it  a  dream,  M.  Joseph?" 

The  cab  drove  off,  and  M.  Joseph  was  spared  telling 
Madame  de  Beauharnais  the  truth.  He  was  convinced 
that  she  would  bear  her  widowhood  with  fortitude. 

"Yes,  darling  Terezia,"  continued  Josephine,  "you  must 
marry  TaUien  at  once.     For  every  reason." 


TERROR  365 

Terezia  yawned. 

"Not  this  week,  as  I  live !"  she  said.  "For  one  week  I 
intend  to  stay  in  bed  and  enjoy  myself;  do  nothing  but 
eat  and  sleep  and  grow  fat  and  beautiful,  and  revel  in 
clean  linen  and  unlimited  baths.  For  one  week  I'll  shut 
my  doors  in  the  face  of  Fate," 

"Et  apres?" 

"I'll  do  my  duty." 

"Well,  your  future  is  settled  very  satisfactorily.  Only 
don't  be  stupid." 

"I  am  not  stupid,"  said  Terezia;  "far  from  it!"  Sud- 
denly she  kicked  off  a  tattered  shoe  and  flung  it  into  the 
street.  She  wore  no  stockings,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
she  possessed  none.  Affectionately  she  stared  at  her 
little  pink  toes  and  her  exquisite  ankle. 

"They  are  not  so  very  dirty,  after  all,"  she  said  com- 
placently. 

The  duchess,  who  was  seated  with  her  back  to  the  horses, 
looked  tearfully  happy.  She  hadn't  been  listening  to  her 
friends'  conversation,  being  deeply  engrossed  in  her  own 
concerns.  Her  whole  mind  was  concentrated  on  her 
babies-    In  a  very  little  while  they'd  be  in  her  arms.  .  .  . 

Josephine  bent  forward  and  kissed  away  the  tears  run- 
ning down  the  thin,  pale  cheeks  of  her  little  friend. 
*Ninon,"  she  said,  "I  understand,  vois-tu,  I'm  also  a 
mother.    Only  Eugene  and  Hortense  are  no  longer  babies." 

Terezia,  behind  her  borrowed  scarf,  which  she  had  ar- 
ranged very  becomingly  round  her  head,  looked  curiously 
at  the  passers-by.  So,  the  Reign  of  Terror  was  over! 
.  .  .  She  smiled  a  trimnphant  smile.  Her  mind  was  full 
of  new  speculations. 


End  of  Volume  I 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 
THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


This  book  is  p.Ufi  ( 

DISCHARGE-UW- 


NOV     5 


1978 


Form  L-9 

23m-10,'M(2481) 


PR 

Aininoff- 

fiom 

A51r 

rvt?  V  o  J.  u  u  X  on  • 

1^22 

« 

1 

_       1 

PR 

6001 

A51r 

1922 

\ 

Marat  Mort. 

From  the  painting  by  David. 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

Lcs  an";eles 

LIBRARY 


7^ 


But  there  remains  that  fervor, 
that  sincerity  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
that  driving  force,  and  there  remains — 
for  the  spectator — the  duty  of  searching 
out  the  human  creature  behind  his  pom- 
pous stagecraft.  You  begin  to  apprehend 
him  a  Httle  more  sympathetically  w^hen 
you  follow^  his  doings  on  the  return  from 
Italy,  and,  before  very  long,  his  participa- 
tion in  the  Revolution.  He  strode  like  a 
man  into  the  conflict.  In  1792  he  v^as 
elected  to  the  Convention.  He  became 
the  friend  of  Robespierre,  gained  some 
prestige  thereby,  and,  with  the  turn  of 
the  wheel,  shared  in  the  repercussions  of 

I  his  leader's  downfall,  tasting  captivity. 
The  point  I  would  stress  is  that  he  rose 

1    to  the  exigencies  of  his  time,  was  as  deep- 

!    ly  touched  by  the  emotions  of  that  great 

'  upheaval  as  though  he  had  never  in  his 
life  had  an  academic  thought.  I  know 
nothing  more  poignant  than  his  sketch 

'  of  Marie  Antoinette  in  the  tumbril  on 
her  way  to  the  guillotine,  an  outline 
drawn  as  he  watched  from  the  window 
of  his  fellow  Representative,  Jullien.  No 
mere  antiquarian  could  have  achieved 

j  such  stark  pathos.  If  you  want  realism, 
fairly  vibrant  realism,  look  at  his  profile 

I  of  Lepelletier  de  Saint-Fargeau,  another 
actor  in  the  Revolutionary  drama.  Or  at 
that  grisly  picture  in  the  Brussels  Mu- 
seum, the  famous  "Marat  Mort."  It  has, 
to  our  modern  eyes,  an  ordered,  academ- 
ic simplicity,  but  it  was  brought  forth 
with  a  fierce  vigor  out  of  the  very  murk 
and  turmoil  of  a  volcanic  epoch. 

'  I  UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


